“Seal the wing. Now.”
“Find the shooter.”
“No one leaves the perimeter.”
Guards flood the corridor, boots pounding, voices overlapping. Alarms begin to wail—low and furious—while rain and wind howl through the shattered window behind us.
I bury my face against his shoulder, heart slamming, breath coming apart in my chest.
His grip tightens, firm and unyielding, like I might slip away if he loosens even an inch.
I cling to him despite myself, feeling the raw power of his heartbeat against my shoulder, the sharp edge of his panic vibrating through him.
He moves with terrifying precision, carrying me down the hall, through the chaos, until we reach his room—our room now. The door shuts behind us with a click, and he bars it.
“Are you hurt?” His voice is tight, controlled, but it trembles at the edges.
I shake my head, too overwhelmed to speak. The moment his hand brushes my cheek, it’s all I can do to keep standing. I crumble, burying my face against his chest. He wraps me tighter, colder, more shaken than I’ve ever seen him.
His lips brush my hair, low and deadly:
“They tried to take you from me.”
And in that instant, I understand: Markov isn’t the only danger in this house. Konstantin Rusnak is beginning to unravel.
Because of me.
His hands tighten around me, possessive, unrelenting.
“And when I finally lay hands on Markov,” he growls, “I’ll make him regret the day he ever thought he could touch you. I’ll tear him apart piece by piece, and no one will stop me.”
I swallow, trembling against him. “I…I’m tired, Konstantin. I just want to find my father.”
His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he crushes me closer, his voice softening just enough to betray the obsession underneath. “I will find him, Raelyn. Even if it’s the last thing I do. Even if the world burns around us, I’ll get him back.”
“I…I believe you,” I whisper, closing my eyes.
At that, he presses me into him tighter, and I feel the weight of his promise, his fury, his unshakable devotion. I let myself rest there, knowing—danger or not—I am held by the one person who refuses to let go.
His hand slides up and down my back in slow, steady passes, grounding, careful—like he’s afraid I’ll splinter if he grips too hard. His thumb presses into the space between my shoulders, warm, deliberate. Not claiming. Comforting.
His other hand comes up to my hair, smoothing it back from my face. He tilts his head, studying me like he needs to see that I’m real. Breathing. Here.
Then, impossibly, he exhales a short laugh.
“I’m very disappointed in that window,” he says.
I blink, pulling back just enough to look at him. “What?”
“The reinforcement failed,” he continues, tone dry, almost offended. “Cracked far too easily. Cheap.”
I stare at him for half a second—and then a laugh bursts out of me, shaky but real. “That ‘cheap’ window is the only reason the bullet didn’t sail through and lodge itself in my head.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
“The projection was powerful,” I add. “Enough velocity to fracture the outer layer. But the internal laminate absorbed the rest. By the time it dropped, it had lost all killing force.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You sound hot, but still unacceptable.”