She hits the floor just as the door flies open and the muffled pop of silenced gunshots floats in from somewhere deeper in the house.
Not this room. Not here.
I vault over the furniture toward the doorway, putting myself between Emma and whatever’s coming.
More gunshots echo through the mansion, and through the gap beneath the sofa, I can see Emma pressing herself flat against the plush carpet. Good girl. Stay down.
“They’re not coming for us,” Dimitri shouts, finger pressed to his ear as he listens to his radio. “East wing. Now.”
Not Emma. They’re not here for Emma.
The relief lasts half a second before Dimitri’s eyes land on me. “Lennox. With me.”
Every cell in my body rebels against the order. My mate is right there, vulnerable, with nothing but a sofa between her and chaos. I can’t leave her.
Stay. Protect. MATE.
But Kozlov is already gesturing frantically from where he’s cowering behind an armchair. “Go. All of you. Don’t let them take her.”
He means the other woman. The riskier asset. The one someone wants badly enough to break into the house of a crime boss.
“But what about…” I start, meaning Emma.
“Igor’s coming. He’ll secure this room.” Dimitri is already moving toward the door.
I look back at Emma. She’s pressed flat against the carpet, her green eyes finding mine in the darkness. I see fear there, but also something else. Trust I haven’t earned yet.
“Stay hidden,” I tell her, my voice rough. “I’ll be back.”
Then I’m following Dimitri into the corridor, but every step away from her feels wrong.
The east wing is in chaos. Guards run past us, some armed, some looking half-asleep. Kozlov’s operation is well-funded but poorly disciplined. Half of these men have never seen real combat.
We round a corner and nearly collide with Pavel, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead.
“Three of them,” he gasps out. “Professional. Knew exactly where they were going.”
Inside job. Someone fed them the layout. I file that away and keep moving.
The heavy door at the end of the east wing corridor, the one that’s always guarded, always locked, is still intact, but the guard who should be stationed there is slumped against the wall, unconscious or worse. Bullet holes pepper the walls around the frame. Three figures in black tactical gear are working on the lock, one of them holding some kind of device against it while the others cover the corridor.
From behind the door, I hear screaming. A woman’s voice, muffled but furious. She knows they’re coming for her.
Snake is on the ground ahead of us, blood streaming from his nose, struggling to get up.
“Stop them.” Dimitri snaps, raising his weapon.
I’m already moving.
The first attacker sees me coming and swings something, a baton or pipe, at my head. I catch it mid-arc, wrench it from his grip, and use his own momentum to send him stumbling into the wall. A knee to his gut folds him in half. He drops.
The second one abandons the lock and turns to face me, reaching for something at his belt. I don’t give him time. Two strikes. One to his chest, then jaw, and he crumples.
Incapacitated. Not dead. I’m not doing Kozlov’s dirty work.
The third one is already running, cutting his losses, but he’s not my priority, so I let him go.
Emma. Get back to Emma.
