His voice was entirely devoid of fear, his tone as level as a plumb line.

“Four in the stairwell,” Killian replied, stepping into the dim red light. “Two more on the fire escape.”

“We go through the service bay,” Aries said.

He did not let go of my wrist.

His hand was steady, guiding me through the dark living room with a familiarity that defied the lack of light.

I stumbled once against the corner of a low marble table, but his arm tightened, pulling me upright before I could fall.

“My bag,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “The lining of the coat. It is still on the work table.”

“I have it,” Killian said.

I heard the dry rustle of the heavy silk fabric as he picked it up from the counter.

We reached the back hallway, where a heavy steel door led to the service stairs.

Killian pushed the door open an inch.

The smell of wet concrete and cold damp air rushed in from the concrete stairwell.

“They are coming up from the twentieth floor,” Killian whispered.

“Then we go up,” Aries said.