But even as I think it, I feel her hand slip into mine, squeezing once. And when I look down at her, covered in blood and trembling but still standing, I see something in her eyes that takes my breath away.
Not fear. Not horror. Pride. She is proud of me. Proud of what I just did. Proud to be mine.
My Pakhan queen.
57
ALENA
Drogo's arm is the only thing holding me upright. The only solid thing in a world that has tilted completely off its axis. My legs feel like water, my hands are shaking so hard I have to press them flat against his chest just to stop the trembling. There is blood on my throat—someone else's blood—and I can taste copper every time I swallow.
I just watched my fiancé shoot two men. The last one's skull exploded. Brain matter is still splattered across the table ten feet away. Klaus's body is on the floor, twitching, blood pooling around his head like a dark halo.
And everyone is cheering.
I search the crowd desperately for Marcus, hoping—praying—that he looks as horrified as I feel, that someone else is seeing this nightmare for what it is. I find him near the back, glass of vodka in hand, and my stomach drops.
He is smiling. Actually smiling. Like he just watched his team win a football match instead of witnessing two murders in under five minutes.
Damn. This is their world. This is normal to them.
Two men appear—efficient, professional, wearing gloves—and wrap Klaus's body in heavy plastic sheeting. They work quickly, methodically, like they have done this a hundred times before. Blood smears across the marble as they drag the wrapped corpse toward a side door. No ceremony. No respect. Just… disposal.
I watch them take him away, and the only thing I can think is: that could have been Drogo. If this had gone differently, if Viktor had not turned, if the men had chosen Klaus instead, that would be Drogo's body being dragged across the floor like garbage.
My grip on his arm tightens until my knuckles go white.
The celebration shifts. The tension that held everyone frozen breaks like a dam, and suddenly the room erupts into movement. Vodka flows. Music starts again—louder this time, more aggressive. Men are shouting, laughing, clapping each other on the back. Someone starts a group dance, stomping and kicking with renewed energy.
They are celebrating. Actually celebrating. Two men just died and they are dancing.
Drogo keeps me tucked against his side, his hand possessive on my waist. He does not sit. Just stands there at the center of it all, accepting congratulations, toasts, oaths of loyalty shouted across the room. Every few minutes someone approaches to shake his hand or kiss his ring or swear their life to him.
And I just stand there. Trembling. Covered in another man's blood. Trying not to fall apart.
Then one of the men who stood for Drogo—one of the last three from Klaus's inner circle who pledged loyalty—suddenly rises from his chair. His face is twisted with rage, with grief, with something that looks like madness.
"Traitor!" he screams, and his gun appears in his hand, pointed directly at Drogo's head. The second man stands with him, his weapon trained on me.
The room explodes. Guns are drawn everywhere—twenty, thirty, more. Men shouting in Russian and English, chairs scraping, bodies moving for cover. Drogo shoves me behindhim instantly, his own gun already out, and I hear him bark orders that I cannot process through the roaring in my ears.
No. No no no no. Not again. Not more. I cannot take any more of this. Cannot watch more people die. Cannot stand here covered in blood while men point guns at the person I love. Damn no. ENOUGH!
"ENOUGH!" I hear myself scream, and the word tears out of my throat like something feral.
The lights go out. Complete, absolute darkness. The temperature plummets—not gradually, but all at once, like someone opened a portal to the Arctic. My breath comes out in clouds so thick I can barely see through them even in the pitch black. Ice forms on the glasses. Frost creeps across the marble floor with audible cracks.
"Kill them," I hear myself say, and my voice sounds strange—layered, like there are other voices speaking with mine.
In the darkness, I hear it. Wet sounds. Crunching. Screaming that cuts off mid-breath. The thud of bodies hitting the floor. Guns clattering. Someone retching. Someone praying in Russian.
The lights snap back on, and the room gasps—a collective intake of horrified breath.
The two men who pointed guns at us are dead. But not shot. Their necks are twisted at impossible angles, bones jutting through skin, blood spraying from torn flesh where something—someone—tore them apart with bare hands that were not there. One man's neck is so twisted his head faces completely backward, eyes wide and empty. The other's throat is ripped open, windpipe exposed, blood pooling faster than seems possible.
Their guns lie on the floor, unfired. Useless.
Everyone is staring at me. Not at the bodies. At me.
