Marcel climbed in beside me. Gun never wavering. “Drive.”
The convoy moved. Up a ramp. Into rain and darkness. Away from the burning mansion. Away from Viktor.
Away from everything.
I stared out the window. Watched fire consume the building. Watched emergency vehicles arrive. Too late. Always too late.
“He might survive, you know,” Marcel said conversationally. “Your Viktor. He's tough. Stubborn. Might dig himself out. Might live long enough to tell everyone how he failed you.”
“Shut up.”
“Or he might not. Might bleed out in the dark. Might burn. Might suffocate under all that rubble.” He smiled. “Either way, he'll wish he died.”
I lunged at him.
He was ready. Caught me by the throat. Slammed me back against the seat. Squeezed just hard enough to make breathing difficult.
“Try that again and I'll kill your father,” he said. Voice still calm. Still conversational. “Not quickly. Not cleanly. I'll make it last. Make him beg. Make him break.” He released me. “Are we clear?”
I gasped. Nodded. Hated myself for nodding.
“Good.” He settled back. “We have a long drive ahead. Try to relax.”
Relax. While Viktor might be dying. While my father was vulnerable. While everything I'd fought for was burning.
I touched my mother's ring. The emerald felt cold. Dead.
She'd believed love could save empires.
She'd been wrong.
28
AFTER THE FIRE
VIKTOR
Shoulder screaming. Thigh burning. Head pounding like someone had used it for percussion practice. Each breath tasted like ash and copper and failure.
I tried to move. Couldn't. Something heavy pinned my legs. Timber. Stone. The ceiling that had tried to bury me alive.
Darkness pressed down. Complete. Suffocating. For a second I thought I was dead. That this was hell. That I'd finally arrived at the destination I'd been running toward since Anya died.
Then I heard voices. Distant. Muffled through layers of debris.
“—here somewhere?—”
“—thermal signature?—”
“—fuck, the whole place is coming down?—”
Dom's voice cut through everything else. Sharp. Desperate. “I've got him! He's under the east support beam!”
Hands. Pry bars. The sound of men straining against weight they shouldn't be able to move.
“On three. One. Two. Three!”
The timber lifted. Slightly. Just enough.
