One second, Ren was asleep; the next, the world was orange light and shattering glass. The clinic walls groaned as an explosion from the floor below sent a violent tremor through the bed, shoving them awake.
Cilian was up before the smoke even cleared. He didn't ask questions. He lunged for Ren, scooping him into his arms despite Ren's pained hiss.
"I've got you," Cilian growled, his voice tight. "Don't let go."
He kicked the door open, moving with desperate speed to get Ren to the exit. But as he stepped into the smoke-filled hallway, he stopped dead.
Standing in the haze were three figures.
In the center was Julian. His pale skin was smeared with dirt, and his long black hair whipped around his face. On either side of him stood two men Cilian had assumed were dead—men he had personally cleared out during the purge. They stood there like ghosts, guns raised.
