She moves to the door, presses her ear against it for a moment, listening. Then she opens it just wide enough to shout orders to the two guards stationed outside. I can see them through the gap—big, professional, armed with rifles and wearing plate carriers.
“Cover this door. Nobody gets in. Nobody.” Her voice has that edge now, the one that says she’s gone from desperate to dangerous. She looks back at me once, and there’s somethingin her expression I can’t read. Regret maybe. Or hatred. Or the toxic combination of both that happens when love curdles into obsession. “When this is over, we’re going to have a very different conversation, Silas.”
Then she slips out, and the door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than the gunfire.
I’m already moving.
Using the adrenaline, the fear, the rage that’s been building since I woke up in this room with her straddling me like she had any right to my body. My hands find the bindings on my wrists—medical restraints, the kind with quick-release if you know where to look. I find the tab, hidden on the underside where your thumb naturally falls if you’re not panicking, and yank.
They fall away.
My leg protests when I stand, the wound pulling and burning and threatening to buckle, but I force it to cooperate. Force myself to move toward the dresser where Aria had set out clothes like we’re playing house, like this is normal, like I’m going to wake up and choose to stay.
Gray joggers. Of fucking course. She really thought I’d just stay here. Thought I’d recover and then what? Play happy family with her? Forget about Parker and the boys and everything that actually matters?
I roll my eyes even as I’m pulling the joggers on, moving as fast as my injured leg allows. The fabric catches on the bandage, and I have to work it carefully, biting back the grunt of pain because pain is just weakness leaving the body, or whatever bullshit my father used to say before he’d throw me in the pit.
The gunfire is closer now. Inside the building. I can hear shouting, boots on hardwood, the organized chaos of a tactical breach. The distinctive sound of flashbangs going off—that concussive whump that you feel in your chest. Someone’s doing this right. Professional. Methodical.
That’s Jace. Has to be. He runs ops like he’s still in the Rangers, everything by the book, everything calculated.
I move to the door as quickly as my fucked-up leg allows, each step sending fresh pain shooting up into my hip. Press my ear against the wood like Aria did. I can hear the two guards on the other side, their breathing slightly elevated from adrenaline but controlled. The subtle shift of gear and weapons. The scratch of a hand against stubble. One of them mutters something I can’t make out, and the other laughs—nervous, trying to stay loose.
They’re good. Professional. They’ll shoot first and never bother with questions.
I need an advantage.
I grab the small decorative table beside the door—the one holding a ridiculous crystal vase with fresh roses that probably cost more than most people’s monthly mortgage. Solid wood beneath the delicate veneer. Heavy. Antique. Worth a fortune.
Perfect.
I lift it with both hands despite the way my shoulder screams in protest, muscles tearing slightly where they’re still healing from whatever the fuck Aria’s med team did to me. Position myself beside the door, weapon in hand, table raised.
Then I throw it.
Hard as I can toward the window on the far side of the room.
It hits with a spectacular crash that’s even better than I hoped. Glass shattering. Wood splintering. The vase exploding in a shower of crystal and water and rose petals. The kind of noise that sounds exactly like an escape attempt, like someone just dove through a second-story window in a desperate bid for freedom.
“Fuck!” One of the guards outside, his voice sharp with alarm. “He’s going through the window!”
“She’s going to kill us,” the other one mutters, but they’re already moving.
The door slams open, hinges protesting. Both guards rush in, weapons raised to high-ready, scanning for the threat. Training taking over—clear the corners, identify targets, establish fields of fire.
They don’t see me behind the door until it’s too late.
I move.
Muscle memory and twenty years of violence making my body flow through the motions even though my leg wants to buckle. Grab the first guard from behind, my forearm sliding across his throat, locking in the chokehold before his brain can even process that the threat isn’t at the window.
His weapon comes up automatically—trained response, good instincts—but I’ve already got control of his wrist. Twist it, force the rifle to point where I want it, my hand over his on the grip.
Point it at his partner.
“Drop it,” I say, my voice rough against his ear.
The second guard hesitates. Just for a second. Looking between me and his partner, whose face is already going red from lack of oxygen, whose body is starting to thrash as panic overrides training.
