I don’t think. I move.
I grab Vivian and throw her to the ground, covering her with my body as more bullets tear across the hall.
“Stay down,” I hiss, even though she’s already trembling beneath me.
Sylvester appears out of nowhere like a demon, returning fire, pushing back against the wave of masked shooters pouring through the doorway.
I drag Vivian behind the podium, my arm locked around her waist. She clings to me—fingers digging into my shirt, breath shaking like she’s trying not to shatter.
“Dimitri—”
“I’m here,” I whisper into her hair. “I’m right here.”
I risk a glance over the podium’s edge.
Chaos.
Smoke.
Gunfire flashing like lightning.
My men are fighting hard, and the shooters—masked, armored—are starting to retreat. One is already down. I feel the burn of helpless rage. Every cell in my body wants to stand up, pull a gun, and tear through every one of those bastards.
But the weight in my arms—Vivian—anchors me.
I won’t leave her.
Not now.
Not ever.
Another round of bullets hits the podium and she flinches hard, squeezing her eyes shut.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, pulling her tighter against me. My heart is steady even as the room explodes around us. “Nothing is going to touch you. Do you hear me? Nothing.”
When the shooting finally stops, the silence is almost worse than the gunfire.
I pull back from Vivian—just enough to look at her—and my stomach drops.
Blood.
All over me. All over her. Warm. Fresh.
“No,” I breathe, voice breaking for the first time in years. “No, no, no—Vivian—”
My hands fly over her body, searching, desperate, frantic until I find it: a grazing bullet wound slicing across the soft skin of her upper arm.
Not deep, but bleeding heavily.
My vision goes red.
“Vivian—”
“It’s okay, Dimitri. Really,” she shakes her head, but I can see the stress in her eyes.
“They came for you,” I whisper, my voice nothing but gravel and fury. “They wanted to make me watch. This attack was primarily directed at you.”
She tries to smile, even now. “It doesn’t hurt that much—”
