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His chiding words cut off, both his and Artur’s heads whipping towards the open door when a guttural male scream came from downstairs. They stared at the hallway like they could see through walls and floorboards to the source of the screams.
“That’s Osborne,” the tanned soldier said, his mouth pressing thin. “You deal with your sister—withoutdamaging her—and I’ll see what—”
A second shout joined the scream, and my head spun as I struggled for air. Finch was already here, he’d come for me, he—he was hurting his own people?
The tanned man hesitated between one step and the next.
The older man had passed out from the pain, spilling blood on the floor.
“I don’t hear gunshots,” Artur said tightly, his nostrils flared with pain. He edged closer to me, but I nudged my gun to point at his bleeding chest, and realised all at once that I could move again, breathe again.
A delirious laugh trickled up my throat and escaped into the room, drowned out by another cry of pain from downstairs.
“That’s almost my whole team,” the man said to Artur, who never once took his eyes off me. “We should have brought more.”
My mouth twitched into a smile, blood roaring in my ears. “You could bring a whole army,” I said, my heart missing a beat when Artur’s expression darkened, so alike Dad’s face right before he corrected my behaviour. “It wouldn’t be enough.”
Artur jerked towards me. I pulled the trigger on reflex, the recoil knocking me into the wall beside the window hard enough that every muscle—tender from being cramped in the boot and shoved around by my brother—flared into bright, temporary pain.
Artur dropped to his knees with a snarl, finally dragging his threatening stare from me to look at the clumsy bullet I’d shot into his thigh. I knew it wouldn’t kill him, and neither would the mess in his chest, but he couldn’t hurt me if he was in pain.
And it felt so fucking good to finally causehimpain. All those years he let Dad hurt me and instead of coming to my rescue, instead of guarding me from that abuse, he became jealous of the attention I was given. Like that attention hadn’t covered me in bruises and scars.
I jerked my gun up when the younger soldier—the only one I hadn’t shot—lunged toward me, his eyes wide and… vacant.
There was—there was a hole in his head. It poured blood down his tanned face as he tumbled to the floorboards. He wasn’t reaching for me. He was dead.
My stare snapped up to the doorway. Hot tears overflowed my eyes as my face crumpled.
“Stay still for me, Vasya,” Damien said calmly, his voice deeper and raspier than usual.
I sucked down air, leaning back against the wall and trying futilely to stem the flow of my tears when Damien strode across the room. His body was as taut as a wire, his hands unshaking and black eyes so violent and murderous, my heart sped. It wasn’t fear in my chest as he shot the older guard slumped on the floor—making sure he was dead—and did the same to Artur, ignoring my brother’s frantic attempt to crawl away. Both bullets buried between their eyes, and love erupted through my heart so fiercely that its beats skipped.
“Damien,” I breathed, gasping for air, or maybe it was sobs stealing what little I already had.
“I’m here,” he promised, lowering his gun but keeping it in his hand as he stalked across the bloodied floorboards to me.
I pointed my own gun away from us, shaking too hard to put the safety on. “I could—I c-could hurt you.”
“Shh,” he soothed, guiding my fingers until the safety clicked back on, his hands chilled against mine. “You know being shot by you has never once deterred me, my queen.”
The ocean of tears I’d been fighting back flooded my eyes. Emotion crushed my chest when Damien pulled me close, his arms like the bars of a cage around me, keeping me safe inside where no one would ever hurt me.
He didn’t speak for long minutes, just held me so tightly that I ached where he gripped me, his breathing fast and sharp and tremors running through him. I squeezed him every bit astightly, welcoming the promise that I was safe at the same time I reassured him I was okay.
“I shot two people,” I said finally, a knot in my chest but my tears dried up.
“I know,” Damien rasped, his fingers buried in my hair, head bowed so his forehead pressed to mine. “I’m so fucking proud of you. Proud to call you my wife.”
I exhaled a long sigh then sucked down deep breaths of his scent—blood and sandalwood and home. It started to sink in that I was okay, that Artur didn’t kill me, that Finch didn’t take me.
I jerked back, meeting my husband’s hard eyes. “Damien, Finch is coming—”
He shook his head, kissing the wrinkle between my eyes. “We heard Artur and these bastards talking; Finch was on his way, but he turned around and told them to bring you to him instead. Probably because he realised I was coming for you.”
“I knew you’d find me,” I said, my throat thick with another wave of tears, waiting for a moment of weakness to rush free. I didn’t care that my brother’s body was growing cold across the room; I grasped the collar of Damien’s shirt—the same one he wore to our reception—and pulled him to me for a rough, desperate kiss.
It was reassurance and promise, violence and safety. I promised Damien I was here, unhurt, at the same time he swore he’d rip apart anyone who tried to take me again, with his bare hands if necessary.
