“What the?—”
Anotherpfft.
His grip releases and he staggers, clutching his throat, blood pouring between his fingers. Anotherpfft, this one to the head, and he falls, too.
I’m standing there, hands and face splattered with blood that isn’t mine.
I turn to see Gabriel in the doorway, gun raised, silencer attached. His expression is cold, controlled, and lethal.
Our eyes meet.
“Thea,” he says quietly, shutting the door behind him, “step away from the bodies.”
I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even begin to process what’s happened.
“Now, Thea.”
I stumble toward him, nearly tripping over one of the men’s legs.
Gabriel moves farther into the room, his gaze sweeping the space. He checks everywhere, confirming that the threat is neutralized.
“Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Everything feels so surreal and dreamlike, as if I’m underwater.
He clicks the safety on the gun and holsters it, crossing over to me. His hands frame my face, tilting it up to the light.
“You’re covered in blood.”
“It’s not mine.”
“I know.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” My voice cracks. “I’m not hurt.”
“Grazie a Dio.” He pulls me against him, one hand cradling the back of my head.
“They were waiting for me.” I whisper the words into his chest. “They said—they said?—”
“I know what they said.”
“Teodora Fetisov.” I pull back, looking up at him. “What does that mean?”
His jaw tightens. He looks off to the side, as if trying to figure out the words.
“Gabriel. Who is Teodora Fetisov?”
“You are.”
His answer doesn’t make sense.
“What?”
His lips form into a hard line.
“Come with me.”
He holds out his hand.