He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t duck. Snow clings to his hair, his charcoal coat open over a black shirt and silver tie. He moves like he owns every inch of air in this house, and for one breathless second, I can’t think of anything except how beautiful he is.
“Teresa!” he roars, spotting me.
The sound rips through the hall, the air itself seeming to stagger aside to make room for it. He locks onto me like nothing else exists, and something deep inside unclenches so hard I nearly collapse. I move toward him. A gunshot rings out. A Volkov traitor pivots toward me, his muzzle flaring. The round punches into the plaster just inches from my head. I freeze.
Vlad closes the distance with terrifying calm, his hand snapping out. One shot—fast, merciless—drops the man to the marble like a sack of meat. Vlad doesn’t even glance down. His eyes stay on me and only me.
I’m halfway to him before I even realize I’m moving again. His hands roam across my body, making sure I’m still in one piece.
“Are you?—”
“I’m okay,” I interrupt, breathless.
His eyes sweep my face. He leans down and presses a firm kiss against my forehead. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t here. Come.”
He turns me so I’m on his left, his body between me and the door. His right hand skims my lower back, steering me past the staircase, down a corridor, through a pair of double doors. I hear Dmitri bark an order and the sudden thud of retreating footsteps—our men peeling off to cover us.
We reach a gallery lined with glass cases filled with weapons that are hopefully decommissioned. Vlad pauses, listening.
Two figures break from a side passage—Trina’s men. Vlad doesn’t give them the formality of a warning. The first drops before his pistol is fully levelled. One sharp crack, chest folding inward like he’d been yanked by a string. The second barely raises his weapon before Vlad’s round takes him in the throat, clean and final.
It happens so fast I almost don’t process it—two men down, Vlad not even winded. No bravado. Just work.
In that moment, I don’t see Vlad the man. I see something cold, carved from the same stone as the angels on cathedral walls—the kind who come not to protect, but to extinguish.
An angel of death.
Myangel of death.
I should be horrified.But I’m not.
I’m in love with him for it.
Vlad doesn’t look back at me. He doesn’t need to. He knows I’m following, that I’ll let him carry the weight of this necessary violence while I carry our future. His hand finds my back again, grounding me, and we keep moving.
“Service wing,” he says. “There’s a back staircase, then the garage?—”
“Going somewhere?”
We both turn. Trina steps out, pistol in hand, a cold smile plastered on her face. She looks at me, clearly disappointed that I’m still breathing, then shifts to Vlad. “You’re late, Angeloff.”
“Traffic,” he replies.
Her gaze drops to where his hand rests at my back. “How sweet.”
My heart slams so hard against my ribs it’s painful. Vlad’s hand presses tighter against my skin.
“Step aside,” he tells her.
“Or what?” Trina tilts her head. “You’ll kill me in my uncle’s gallery? He’s bleeding out two rooms away, if you want to say hello.”
“Trina,” I say, my throat dry, “this doesn’t have to?—”
“End?” She smiles again, thin and final. “Everything ends, darling.”
