I hear sounds from outside now—engines rumbling, growing closer.
The crunch of tires on gravel.
Voices, sharp and urgent.
The click of guns being readied.
"He came for you," Solveig murmurs in my ear, her breath warm against my skin. "Just like I knew he would. Your father. Your lover. All of them, rushing into my trap like good little soldiers. They think they're going to save you."
Her free hand strokes my hair, gentle and wrong.
A mockery of comfort.
"But you and I know the truth, don't we, Dalla? We know how this ends. You're going to die in this room, with your father watching. And then I'm going to kill him too. And everyone else who gets in my way."
"You're insane," I whisper.
"Probably." She laughs softly. "Thirty years of planning will do that to a person. But at least I'll be satisfied. At least I'll have my justice."
Through the window, I see movement—dark shapes spreading out, taking positions.
The Raiders. My family. Coming for me.
And somewhere among them, RJ.
My RJ. Coming to save me.
"He'll kill you," I say, and despite everything, despite the knife at my throat and the blood on my stomach and the terror clawing at my chest, I believe it. "He won't let you hurt me. He'll burn this whole place down and everyone in it."
"He can try." Solveig presses the knife harder, and I feel a sting as the blade bites into my skin.
Not deep—not yet—but enough to draw blood.
Warm and wet, running down my neck, soaking into the collar of my shirt. "But I've been planning this for thirty years. I've thought through every scenario, prepared for every possibility. And I'm not going to lose."
A window shatters somewhere in the house.
Gunfire erupts—close, deafening, the pop-pop-pop of automatic weapons mixed with the deeper boom of shotguns.
The guards at the door open fire, shouting to each other, coordinating their defense.
It’s started.
Solveig's hand tightens in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing more of my throat to the knife.
I feel the blade press deeper, another line of fire, another trickle of blood.
"Now we wait," she says, her voice calm despite the chaos exploding around us. "Now we see who makes it through."
And all I can do is bleed and pray that the man I love gets to me in time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RJ
The farmhouse looms ahead of us, white paint peeling, windows dark.
Somewhere inside, Dalla is bleeding.
