The first bullet shatters a window down the corridor. A second follows, punching through the study wall. Glass rains down in deadly shards, and the alarms scream to life, blaring through every floor.
Men shout, boots pounding as guards scramble from their posts. Shadows flash in the garden, muzzle flashes bright in the night.
“Move! Move!” Nikolai roars, his voice cutting through the chaos.
I’m already running, gun in hand, every sense alive with the old, terrible clarity. The taste of adrenaline coats my tongue. I race for Clara’s room, heart slamming as I hear her scream my name, desperate and terrified.
I throw the door open, splinters flying, and find her huddled by the bed, eyes wide, fists clenched white around the sheet.
“Down!” I shout, grabbing her arm, pulling her flat to the floor just as another volley of gunfire rips through the hall.
Bullets chew through plaster, spraying dust and wood over our heads. She whimpers, hands covering her ears.
The door explodes inward as two masked men storm through, rifles raised. I fire first, catching the first in the chest. He goes down hard, blood blooming across his vest. The second returns fire, shots hammering the bed frame, the air thick with burned powder.
A bullet grazes my arm—a white-hot line of agony, blood pouring down to my wrist—but I don’t stop. I drag Clara behind me, using my body as a shield as we crawl toward the dresser.
The second intruder tries to reload, but I shoot him through the eye. His skull snaps back, blood and bone spattering the wall.
“Stay down!” I growl at Clara. Her face is ghost-pale, mouth open in a silent scream, but she listens, burying herself against the floor.
The hallway outside is a chaos of men shouting orders, more gunfire, the dull thud of bodies falling. I push up, firing down the corridor, catching another shadow in the gut. He collapses, writhing, blood pooling under him as he gasps for breath.
A guard staggers past, shot through the thigh. He drops beside me, clutching his leg. I kick a pistol into his hand, then step over him, firing at the next shape that appears—a flash of black and steel. He falls, screaming, and I empty the magazine into his chest until he stops moving.
The air is thick with blood and cordite, the stench making my eyes water. I reload, ignoring the pain in my arm. More shots ring out from the foyer.
I hear Nikolai curse, barking orders, another man shouting, “They’re in the garden!”
“They won’t get her,” I hiss, and turn back to Clara, grabbing her by the wrist. She tries to speak, but her lips move soundlessly, terror choking her.
“We’re moving,” I say. “Now.”
We sprint down the corridor, ducking low. Bullets snap past us, cutting lines in the walls, punching through picture frames. I shoot back, taking out a man crouched by the staircase—he collapses in a heap, his rifle clattering away.
A grenade rolls into the hall, clinking across the marble. I shove Clara through the nearest doorway and dive after her, covering her with my body as the explosion shakes the floor, shrapnel biting into my shoulder.
My ears ring with the blast, but I force myself up, shoving her ahead of me. “Go! Don’t stop!”
The kitchen is chaos—cooks screaming, glass everywhere, a guard bleeding from a head wound. I shoot another masked man as he lunges for Clara, the bullet catching him in the throat. Blood fountains, splashing hot across my face.
We stagger through the pantry, out into the service hall, then up the narrow back stairs. Another shot echoes, and I feel the sting of a graze along my ribs, wet warmth soaking my shirt. Clara gasps, grabbing my arm, but I pull her on.
Guards pour into the hall, faces pale and wild. “Secure the doors!” I bark, blood dripping from my arm to the floor. “Don’t let anyone through!”
I kick open the last door, dragging Clara into the windowless storage room at the center of the house. She collapses onto the floor, shaking, hair plastered to her cheeks. I slam the door shut, locking it with trembling hands, pistol still raised.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of her ragged breathing, the distant roar of violence, and the hammering of my own heart. My arm bleeds freely, the pain hot and real.
Clara’s eyes are huge, terror and shock written across her face. She crawls toward me, reaching for my wound. “You’re hurt. Lukyan, your arm—”
I wave her off, teeth clenched against the pain. “Later. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
She grabs my hand anyway, pressing her palm over the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding. Her touch is frantic, tender and wild, and for a moment I can’t look away from her. Blood smears her fingers, staining her skin.
“Don’t die,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Don’t you dare die.”
I almost laugh, though my head spins. “It’s only a superficial wound, sweetheart.”
