He has lost too much in too short a span of time. He thought he was going to lose me. We lost the baby. And now he has lost his mother in the most brutal way possible, with no goodbye, no chance to reconcile, and no chance to hear those words without a gunshot following them.
There is no version of Seth that witnesses that and stays the same.
I feel it settling into place with sick certainty. He's going to lose himself. Whatever thin strip of humanity he still holds onto is about to burn away.
And I am terrified of what he will become.
Three hours later, Beau slows the car and pulls off the road. Trees crowd around us, thick enough to hide the vehicle from the drive beyond. Up ahead, iron gates rise out of the dark, framing a mansion that glows softly against the night.
We move fast after that. Beau handles security like it is instinct. One guard drops without a sound, and another follows moments later. The booth opens, and the gate slides wide.
We slip inside.
The house looms closer with every step, and I can hear conversation drifting through the air, along with the clink of glass and low laughter, all of it untouched by what is about to happen.
I reach the front door and lift my balaclava just enough.
The door opens.
A maid freezes when she sees me, confusion flickering across her face before she steps aside automatically.
An older woman with gray hair approaches from inside, and the moment her eyes land on me, recognition hits hard enough that she physically recoils. Shock spreads across her face, her posture locking as she takes me in, clearly understanding exactly who I am.
I smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Grant.”
Chapter 60
Seth
Icome back to myself standing in blood.
It slicks the marble floor in wide, uneven smears, footprints layered over footprints where guests tried to flee and failed. Red tracks curve, overlap, and stop abruptly where bodies fell. Glass crunches under my boots when I shift my weight. It is everywhere. In my treads. On my hands. Up my sleeves.
Somewhere behind me, something crackles and pops. A fire alarm is going off, shrill and useless, competing with the low electrical buzz of damaged lighting overhead.
I blink.
I barely remember parts of it.
Bodies fill the room in obscene arrangements. Folded at angles the body isn’t meant to bend. Draped over tables that were set for champagne and hors d’oeuvres less than an hour ago. Linen is soaked through, floral centerpieces crushed flat and dark with blood. A violin lies snapped in half near the stage. A crystal chandelier still sways, scattering light over the carnage like a spotlight.
I count without meaning to.
Five.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty at least.
Bodies cover the marble and the carpet between the tables.
The security team went down first.
I had the rifle waiting before I ever walked in. It was already positioned, already sighted. I took the guards before anyone inside understood what washappening. Two at the entrance. One at the service corridor. One near the glass wall overlooking the city.
