Standing at the edge of the garden. Gun still raised. Smoke curling from the barrel.
His eyes are locked on me. He doesn’t say a word as he strides forward. His steps are slow and careful, like I’m something fragile—shattered glass he’s afraid to step on.
But I flinch. Back away.
“No,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Don’t—don’t come near me.”
He freezes. His jaw tightens, but he says nothing. My gaze drops to the body at his feet. Then to the blood on my arm. Ronan’s. The man’s. I don’t even know. It doesn’t matter. It’s blood. And it’s real. And it’s everywhere.
My breath catches, sharp and panicked, and I look at him again. For a second—just a second—I don’t see Lukin. I see him. The man who murdered my parents. The storm. The gun. The stillness after. I see the same cold fire in Lukin’s eyes, the same lack of remorse. Like this wasn’t someone’s life. Like it was just… business.
“You’re a monster,” I whisper.
It slips out cracked, broken, like something torn from my throat.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest.
Something flickers in his eyes—but it’s not guilt. It’s not pride. It’s nothing. Just silence. Stillness. Emptiness.
And maybe that’s worse.
I turn and run. Into the house. Through the halls. Past the stunned faces of the staff. I don’t stop.
All I can feel is the blood sticking to my skin. All I can hear is that single gunshot still ringing in my ears.
I don’t know where I’m going. Only that I have to get away before he kills me too.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Lukin
I’m seething.
I’m raving mad.
Someone broke intomy home. My home. To hurt her. To kill my child.If I hadn’t made it in time…I don’t let the thought finish. I can’t.
I’m in the war room now, surrounded by my men who are equally angry. The room reeks of tension and rage. Gunpowder clings to my skin, metallic and bitter. The echo of that gunshot is still sharp in my head—loud enough to drown out the sound of her voice when she called me a monster.
But I don’t have time for softness right now.
This is war.
Arseny’s already laying out files, maps, coordinates on the steel table. His face is carved from stone, eyes bloodshot but alert. “The Cobra signature was on the knife at the warehouse, and again tonight,” he says. “It’s confirmed. They’re back.”
Back from the dead. Back for revenge. I killed them once, and I will do it again, this time, for good.
Adrian bursts through the door like a damn hurricane, tossing a folder down in front of us. His leather jacket’s half unzipped, his shirt bloodstained—probably not his own. He’s grinning, feral and sharp.
“I found them,” he says. “Old wine distribution building. Outside the city. They’ve built tunnels beneath it. They’re hiding like fucking rats.”
Then he switches to Russian, low and lethal: “Davai ub’yom etikh sukin synov.”Let’s kill those motherfuckers.
No one argues. Weapons are already being prepped. Kevlar zipped. Radios checked. Orders issued in clipped tones. My fists clench. They made this personal. That was their first mistake. They’ll beg before I’m done.
The drive is silent. Too silent. No one plays music. No one jokes. Not even Adrian.
I sit in the back seat, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of road ahead, mind chewing through every angle. How they got past my gates. Who helped them. Why now.
Adrian leans forward slightly. “Is Zoe okay? The baby?”
