My chest heaves once—then again—before I drive my fist straight into the edge of the dresser. The wood cracks under the force, pain shooting up my arm, but I barely feel it.
“FUCK!”
The roar tears out of me, raw and unrestrained.
Another hit, this time the wall. Plaster fractures beneath my knuckles. Dust scatters into the air.
The guards at the door don’t move.
They don’t speak.
They just watch—frozen—because they’ve never seen me like this.
Not out of control.
But I’m not thinking about them.
I’m thinking about one thing.
Anton.
He was never outside.
He played me.
Used the entire assault—every bullet, every man, every explosion—to pull me away from the only place that mattered.
From her.
My breathing turns heavier, slower. Far more dangerous.
I step toward the broken window, stopping just short of it, staring out into the chaos below. The rope still hangs there. Swaying slightly. Mocking.
He came in.
And he walked out.
With her.
My jaw tightens so hard it aches.
“You think you’ve won,” I say under my breath.
A slow inhale.
Then I turn.
Every trace of that explosive rage compresses into something sharper. Focused. Deadly.
“No.” My voice is quieter now, but far worse. “I will fucking end you!”
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
“We’ll find her.” Lukyan’s voice cuts in, steady but firm. “Let’s regroup.”
For a second, I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t react. I just stand there with the shattered window behind me and the entire estate still burning in fragments of chaos outside.
I want to throw him off me. I want to keep moving. I want blood on my handsnow.
