Chapter 363: The Rescue
Charles gripped the axe, angling himself in front of Emily like a human shield.
His voice dropped low: "When I charge, you run left. Find the stairs and go down. Don't look back."
Emily's chest tightened. "What about you?"
His tone was terrifyingly calm. "I'll hold them off."
Emily rejected the idea instantly. "No. I'm staying with you."
Charles didn't turn around. He just lifted his hand, fingers grazing her hair in what felt like goodbye.
"Emily. Do as I say."
Her eyes burned. She forced herself to think—shattered glass from the fire cabinet; exposed wiring at the corner; the emergency light's power box mounted above the side door...
The men started closing in.
Kismet raised her hand, voice lilting like a judge delivering a sentence: "Don't kill him. I want him alive."
She paused, gaze shifting to Emily. The hatred in her eyes erupted like a wildfire she could no longer contain.
"As for you, Emily—I'll make sure you watch him beg on his knees."
A chill shot down Emily's spine.
She lunged toward the broken glass on the floor, but Charles caught her wrist first, his grip bruising.
His voice came through gritted teeth. "Don't do anything stupid. I said don't."
Emily stared at him, eyes reddening. "You think I can just run? They want you. They want me too."
Charles finally looked at her.
For one horrible second, the emotions in his eyes churned—rage, anguish, terror, and a suffocating kind of restraint.
He pulled her into him, pressing his forehead to hers, voice barely audible: "Emily, listen to me—I won't let you die. Even if they corner me, I won't let them touch you."
He lifted his gaze to the advancing figures, his stare arctic, like he was ready to drag them all to hell.
"Trust me."
Emily's throat constricted. Fear gave way to something steadier—not because she believed in heroes, but because she believed in him.
Still, Kismet's men had closed to within ten feet.
Emily realized with sudden clarity: the real reversal wasn't Kismet winning. It was Charles, backed into a corner, still carving out an escape route for her.
Even if that route had to be paved with his life.
The stun gun prongs hovered closer, but Charles didn't move yet.
He held the axe, body angled to keep Emily completely behind him, but his eyes locked on Kismet.
"So your goal was to lure me here. Make me submit to you?"
Kismet froze, then laughed—a sound like a demon's whisper. "Finally scared?"
Charles scoffed. "Scared? I just want to know who's pulling your strings."
Her laughter faded. Hatred seethed in her gaze. "Still obsessed with your mother's death? Charles, you still think the Campbells did it?"
Emily's pulse spiked.
Charles's jaw tightened, but he pressed forward, tone deliberate: "Didn't they?"
Kismet's voice turned shrill, laced with vindictive glee: "No! It wasn't the Campbells! When your mother died, they were too busy saving their own skins to even notice the Windsors!"
Charles's expression darkened, knuckles white around the axe handle. "Then who?"
Kismet stared at him like she wanted to rip him apart piece by piece. "Guess. You're so smart."
Charles's voice dropped, edged with menace. "Give me a name."
Her voice trembled, but she forced out another laugh. "Tell you, and you think you'll walk out of here? Charles, if you want answers, hand over Emily first. Beg me—"
Emily's heart plunged into ice water.
She knew Kismet was stalling. She knew Charles was fishing for information. But she hadn't expected Kismet to outright deny Campbell involvement—which meant everything they'd been chasing might have been deliberately misdirected.
Charles's gaze turned glacial. "You're not worth it."
Kismet bit down hard, trembling with rage. "I'm not worth it? But she is? What makes her so special?!"
Then—
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Not the chaotic shuffle of Kismet's thugs, but the disciplined advance of trained operatives: two columns, three rows, perfectly spaced, even their breathing synchronized.
The cold, floral scent in the air thickened.
Emily's stomach dropped. Here it comes.
Kismet's expression shifted from mania to triumph, like the star of the show had finally arrived.
A figure emerged from the shadows—black suit, silver pin gleaming on his lapel, smile polite and composed, yet radiating menace under the dim light.
Gerald.
He looked like he was attending a gala, not orchestrating violence in a grimy corridor.
Gerald raised a hand in courteous greeting. "Mr. Windsor. Didn't expect to see you in such a sorry state."
Charles's pupils contracted. His voice was ice. "So it was you."
Gerald's smile didn't waver, but his gaze drifted to Emily, lingering for half a second like he was admiring a masterpiece he'd finally trapped. "Ms. Johnson. Did you like last night's dress?"
Emily's spine went cold, but she gripped Charles's coat tighter, forcing herself not to flinch. "You sent it?"
Gerald hummed softly. "My insignia. Hard to miss, don't you think?"
Charles's stare turned murderous, the axe lifting slightly in his grip, intent unmistakable.
Gerald seemed unbothered. His tone remained pleasant. "I wouldn't. Move one inch, and you lose another man."
He gestured.
A side door slammed open. Several men in black dragged Nathan out. Blood trickled from his mouth—he'd clearly just been subdued.
Gerald's voice softened, almost pitying:
"Mr. Windsor. You can gamble if you like."