Godric watched Luther's finger tighten on the trigger, saw the slight shift in his uncle's stance as he prepared to fire, and felt something inside him simply... shatter. All the careful control he had maintained, all the cold calculation that had kept him alive through years of Luther's manipulation – it all fell away, leaving only raw, desperate panic.
Nora's expression was what undid him completely.
She was not looking at Luther or the pistol aimed at her head. Her gaze was fixed solely on Godric, and in her eyes, he saw no fear for herself. Only a devastating sadness, a quiet acceptance that broke something crucial in his chest. It was as though she had already forgiven him for everything – for the lies, for the manipulation, for the cruel words he had just spoken – and was simply waiting for the end with a grace that he could never hope to possess.
She looked at him as though she loved him, even now. Especially now.
And Godric could not bear it.
He moved without thinking, his body acting on instinct before his mind could catch up. But even as he lunged forward, he knew with cold certainty that he would not be fast enough. The distance between them was too great, and Luther's finger was already pulling back on the trigger.
He was going to watch her die. After everything – after all his careful planning, after discovering the truth about his parents' deaths, after finally allowing himself to feel something real for another person – he was going to lose her.
The thought was unbearable.
But then, impossibly, time seemed to slow down even more. Godric's hand went to the pistol concealed beneath his coat, his fingers closing around the grip with practiced ease. He had carried the weapon for weeks now, ever since his suspicions about Luther had first begun to take root. Had practiced drawing it in the privacy of his chambers until the motion became as natural as breathing.
He drew now, smooth and fast, bringing the pistol up even as Luther's finger completed its pull.
Two shots rang out simultaneously, the reports deafening in the enclosed space of the warehouse.
For a heartbeat, Godric could not tell what had happened. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air, smoke obscuring his vision, and his ears rang with the aftermath of the explosions.
Then the smoke began to clear, and he saw.
Luther was on the ground, clutching his foot and screaming. Blood seeped between his fingers, staining the warehouse floor dark, and his pistol had fallen from his grasp to skitter several feet away across the rough wooden boards.
Godric had aimed for his uncle's foot, unable to bring himself to deliver a killing shot despite everything Luther had done. Some part of him – the part that was still that nine-year-old boy who had looked up to his uncle as his only remaining family – had refused to cross that final line.
But Nora was alive. That was all that mattered.
She sat exactly where she had been, her eyes wide with shock but otherwise unharmed. Luther's shot had gone wide when Godric's bullet struck him, the pain disrupting his aim enough that the ball had embedded itself harmlessly in the warehouse wall.
Relief crashed over Godric with such intensity that his knees nearly buckled. But there was no time to savour it, because movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.
Anthony had been standing frozen throughout the confrontation, his face pale and his hands shaking. But now, with Luther wounded and Godric's attention divided, he saw his opportunity. The killer dove for Luther's fallen pistol, his fingers stretching toward the weapon.
Godric swung his own pistol toward Anthony, but before he could fire, the warehouse door burst open with a crash that made everyone jump.
Cecil charged through the entrance like an avenging angel, his face twisted with fury and his fists already clenched. He took in the scene with a single sweeping glance – his sister bound and gagged on the floor, Luther bleeding and screaming, Anthony reaching for a weapon – and made his decision in an instant.
“You dare,” Cecil roared, crossing the distance to Anthony in three long strides. “You dare lay hands on my sister?”
His fist connected with Anthony's gut with enough force that the sound of impact echoed through the warehouse. Anthony folded in half with a strangled gasp, the air driven from his lungs, and collapsed to the floor. His head struck the wooden boards with a sickening thud, and he went limp, unconscious before he even fully landed.
Godric did not waste another moment. He kicked Luther's pistol away, sending it skidding into the shadows where it could pose no further threat, then ran to Nora.
His hands shook as he dropped to his knees beside her, setting his own weapon carefully aside. She was trembling, her entire body vibrating with suppressed emotion, and up close he could see the tears that had tracked down her cheeks despite her best efforts to remain composed.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, his fingers fumbling with the knot of the gag. “God, Nora, I am so sorry. I did not mean any of it. Not a single word.”
The gag came free, and she drew in a great, shuddering breath. But she said nothing, simply watching him with those impossibly expressive eyes as he moved to the ropes binding her wrists.
The knots were tight, tied by someone who knew what they were doing, and Godric's shaking hands made the task even more difficult. He cursed under his breath, forcing himself to slow down, to be methodical despite the urgent need screaming through him to have her free, to have her safe.
Finally, the last ropes fell away, and Nora brought her hands forward with a soft sound of relief, rubbing at the raw skin where the bonds had chafed.
Godric caught her hands gently in his own, his thumbs stroking over the reddened marks with a tenderness that made his chestache. Then, unable to help himself, he ran his hands up her arms, over her shoulders, checking frantically for any sign of injury.
