The thought sends a spike of adrenaline through me that nearly brings me to my knees.
I leave the room, taking the stairs two at a time. I don't call out for the guards. I want them on the perimeter. This is personal.
I burst into the conservatory.
Ivy jumps, dropping her charcoal stick. It clatters onto the stone floor, shattering into black dust.
"Silas?" She turns, her eyes widening when she sees the rifle across my chest. She takes in the dark clothes, the tension radiating off me in waves, the look in my eyes that promises murder.
"What is it?" she whispers, backing up until her hips hit the easel. "Is it... is it the storm again?"
"No," I say, closing the distance between us. "It’s a different kind of weather."
I grab her arm. My grip is bruising. I don't have time for gentleness.
"We’re leaving. Now."
"Silas, you’re hurting me! What’s happening?"
"Someone is watching," I snarl, pulling her toward the door. "There is a drone over the north wall. They are looking right at you."
She gasps, looking up at the glass roof, suddenly realizing how exposed she is. "A drone? Is it... is it him? The Russian?"
"Nikolai doesn't play with toys," I say grimly. "But he hires men who do."
I drag her out of the conservatory, across the lawn, and into the main house. I lock the heavy back doors and engage the steel shutters. The daylight is blotted out as metal sheets descend over the windows with a heavy, mechanical groan.
"Where are we going?" Ivy asks, trying to keep up with my long strides.
"Upstairs."
"Are we hiding?"
"You are hiding," I correct her. "I am hunting."
We reach the master bedroom. I kick the door shut and lock it. I walk her over to the bed—the massive, four-poster mahogany bed that has been our battleground of silence for three nights.
"Sit," I command.
She sits, trembling. "Silas, please don't leave me here alone. If there’s someone out there..."
"That is exactly why I am leaving," I say. "I am going to find the man holding the remote control, and I am going to ask him politely to stop."
"You’re going to kill him," she says, her voice flat.
"I’m going to take him apart."
I walk to the bedside table. I open the top drawer.
I pull out a pair of handcuffs.
They are heavy steel, standard police issue. Not the fuzzy, recreational kind. These are meant for restraint. For custody.
Ivy sees them. Her breath hitches. She scrambles back across the mattress, pressing her spine against the headboard.
"No," she says, shaking her head. "Silas, no. You can't."
"I have to," I say, my voice calm, reasonable, terrifying.
