My throat closed. Wouldn't let the rest out.
Couldn't say I'd failed the only person who'd mattered since Anya.
Couldn't admit I'd let history repeat itself.
Couldn't face the fact that loving him had made me weak. Distracted. Compromised.
That Marcel had been right about everything.
“We're wasting time.” I forced myself upright. World spun. Tilted. Righted itself through sheer will. “We go after him. Now.”
“You can barely stand,” Troy said.
“Don't care.” I was on my feet. Somehow. Vision swimming. Ground feeling too far away. “Get me in a vehicle. Give me a weapon. Point me at Marcel.”
“You'll collapse before we make it five miles.”
“Then I collapse five miles closer to Sebastian.”
I started walking. Toward the vehicles. Toward something.Anywhere that wasn't here. Wasn't standing in the ruins of another failure.
My leg gave out after three steps.
Dom caught me. Again. Always catching me when I fell.
“Easy,” he murmured. “We'll get him back. But we do it smart. Not suicide.”
“Smart didn't save Anya.” The words came out bitter. Raw. “Smart got her killed while I followed protocol.”
“This isn't?—”
“Yes it is!” I shoved him away. Or tried to. Didn't have the strength. “It's exactly the fucking same. Someone I was supposed to protect. Someone I?—”
Loved. The word stuck in my throat. Wouldn't come out.
Because saying it made it real. Made the loss concrete. Made failure absolute.
Dom's expression shifted. Understanding flooding in. “Viktor?—”
“Don't.” I couldn't hear sympathy. Couldn't handle kindness. “Just. Get me to a vehicle. Get me moving. I can't. I can't just stand here while he?—”
My vision blurred. Not from blood loss. From something worse.
From eighteen years of holding back finally cracking.
“He promised,” I said. Voice breaking. “We both promised we'd come home. Together. And I?—”
Noah appeared. Moving fast despite the chaos. Tablet in hand. Rain soaking through his clothes. “Convoy went dark under Blackfriars. Multiple exit vectors. Adrian's got people on every route but?—”
“But Marcel's had months to plan this,” I finished. Forced the tactical part of my brain to engage. Pushed emotion down where it couldn't interfere. “He'll have safehouses staged. Multiple fallback positions. We won't find him randomly searching.”
“Then how?” Luka asked.
I looked at the burning mansion. At everything Marcel had built and abandoned. At evidence turning to ash.
“The King,” I said. “Alexandre knows him better than anyone. Knows his habits. His contingencies. His?—”
The world tilted again. I grabbed Dom's shoulder to stay upright.
