"Sybil, no!" Thayer roars, absolute, unadulterated terror fracturing his voice.
I ignore him. The heavy Glock in my hands feels like an extension of my own bones. The adrenaline completely sharpens my vision, slowing the chaotic, violent world down to a microscopic, terrifying crawl.
I see the tactical soldier at the base of the stairs, tracking his rifle upward, his finger depressing the trigger.
I lock my elbows. I align the iron sights perfectly with the center of his heavy tactical vest.
I pull the trigger.
The recoil of the 9mm is a brutal, violent kick that jerks my shoulders backward, sending a sharp ache straight up my arms.
The bullet strikes the soldier directly in the collarbone, exploiting the tiny gap in his body armor. The impact violently spins him around. His rifle fires wildly into the ceiling, bringing down a shower of dust and plaster, before he collapses completely, choking on his own blood.
The absolute, ringing silence that falls over the foyer is catastrophic.
I am kneeling on the landing, my chest heaving with rapid, jagged gasps, the heavy barrel of my gun smoking slightly in the freezing air. I just shot a man. I pulled the trigger and ended a life. The psychological weight of the act should crush me. It should break my mind.
But I feel absolutely nothing but a dark, overwhelming surge of protective power.
"Well, well," Bastian’s voice echoes from the shadows near the drawing-room doors. He steps out, his silver revolver raised, a look of genuine surprise crossing his features. "The little bird has talons."
He aims the revolver directly at my chest.
Thayer moves with a speed that entirely defies the catastrophic damage to his body. He lunges across the landing, his massive right arm sweeping out to drag me violently behind him.
Bastian fires.
The booming explosion of the heavy caliber revolver shakes the foundations of the house. The bullet grazes the edge of Thayer’s right ribcage, ripping through his flesh and tearing a jagged hole in the plaster wall behind us.
Thayer doesn't even flinch. He doesn't break his stride. He raises his Glock, completely ignoring the blood pouring from his side and his shoulder.
He fires a single, devastating shot.
The bullet catches Bastian directly in the throat.
Bastian’s eyes widen in absolute, comical shock. The silver revolver slips from his fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor. He reaches up, his hands frantically clutching his shattered windpipe, dark blood violently spraying through his fingers. He takes one stumbling, pathetic step backward before his knees buckle.
He collapses onto his back, his body twitching violently in the dust before going completely, entirely still.
The ghosts of the Thorne family are finally dead.
I drop my gun. It hits the floorboards with a heavy thud. My entire body begins to shake, a violent, uncontrollable tremor that rattles my teeth. The adrenaline crash is absolute, a devastating freefall into pure exhaustion.
Thayer slowly lowers his weapon. His massive chest is heaving, the blood from his grazed ribs mixing with the crimson pouring from his torn shoulder. He looks down at the three bodies littering the foyer of his childhood prison.
He slowly turns around to face me.
His pale gray eyes are completely blown, burning with a dark, feral, obsessive intensity that completely steals the oxygen from my lungs. He doesn't look at me with horror. He doesn't see a broken girl.
He sees a queen covered in the blood of his enemies.
He drops his gun. He closes the distance between us in two heavy, predatory strides. He drops to his knees on the dusty floorboards, his right hand shooting out to grip the back of my neck.
He drags me forward, crashing his mouth down onto mine.
The kiss is an absolute, violent explosion. It is a collision of survival, adrenaline, and pure, unadulterated madness. He tastes like gunpowder, sweat, and absolute victory. I moan, my hands flying up to grip his jaw, my fingers digging desperately into his skin, entirely anchoring myself to the monster I just killed for.
He pulls away, his chest heaving against mine, his forehead resting heavily against my own.
