But even half-blinded and bleeding —
He didn’t let go of the dagger.
Blood was everywhere.
It pulsed from the ruined socket in heavy, rhythmic bursts — spilling down his cheek, soaking into his shirt, dripping onto the marble floor in thick crimson splashes.
The stain spread fast.
Too fast.
Ruslan remained on his knees.
His body swayed slightly.
His remaining eye was half-lidded from shock and pain, veins visible in the whites, breathing coming in shallow, strained gasps.
My chest seized.
The reality of what he had just done crashed into me violently — stripping away whatever control I thought I had over the situation.
Panic detonated inside me.
“Petros!”
My scream tore through the room.
“Petros!”
My legs moved before my mind could catch up.
I stumbled backward — almost tripping over the edge of the bed — then turned and bolted out of the bedroom.
Bare feet slapped against cold marble as I ran through the corridor.
“Petros!”
My voice echoed off the high ceilings.
It sounded broken.
Hysterical.
A door opened somewhere down the hallway.
Petros emerged almost instantly from the service wing — his posture always alert, always ready.
The second he saw my face, his expression shifted.
Alarm.
“Elena — what happened?”
I couldn’t form coherent words.
“Ruslan— he—”
My throat tightened.
