Page 110 of Crown of Thorns
Louis freezes.
We both listen. Then, a second set of footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, too far from the first.
“There’s more than one,” I whisper.
“One’s at the east windows,” I say, breathless. “The other… from the office wing.”” I whisper.
Louis’s grip loosens, torn. His mouth is hard, his jaw tight with fury and calculation. “They’re trying to separate us.”
“We need to move,” I say, eyes scanning the broken windows. “We can’t stay here.”
Louis nods sharply. “We’ve got to split up and confuse them.”
“I’ll draw him out,” I add. “You stop whoever’s trying to flank us.”
He grabs my collar, breathing hard. “Come back to me.”
“I will.”
His fingers twitch at my sleeve, like he wants to pull me back. But he doesn’t. He lets go. Not with surrender, but with fire. His eyes scorch mine, as if branding this moment into memory. We both know this is a gamble. A trap sprung. A war begun.
I rush through the hallways, toward my office. The door is wide open, the room a mess. Books are scattered everywhere, the desk overturned. My heart thuds in my chest.
“What the—” I freeze in place.
A single clap cuts through the silence, slow and deliberate. My heartbeat quickens, each pulse heavy in my ears.
I turn slowly.
There, standing in my doorway, is a cloaked figure. A grin spreads across his face.
“Bravo, Noah. You’ve been such a fun little project.”
I know that voice.
“Monsieur Z… Fun?”
“Very much so.” He chuckles. “I even considered keeping you here, as Professor Montague, just to watch how the drama unfolds. But then, other things became more important. You’ve become redundant.”
“Redundant?” I gasp.
“Yes. And now… I’ll enjoy every minute of your downfall, just as I have with everything you’ve suffered these past fifteen years of your life.”
A sharp pain explodes at the back of my head. My vision spins, and I stagger, my hand reaching for the desk to keep myself upright. Blood trickles down my neck.
“You’ll know where to find us,” he says, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The latch slams home, like an old mechanism snapping tight from the outside, final and cold. I’m trapped.
My legs buckle beneath me. My glasses are gone. My sight blurs.
“Oh, Noah,” he says, his voice full of mock pity as I collapse. “Don’t be late, Noah.”
The game’s only just begun.
31
LOUIS
It hits me too late.
