Page 81 of His Eternal Claim

Something cold and sharp moves through my veins.

“She won’t.”

Rain slides down the windshield. I flip the safety cover.

“She knows the sound of my storms.”

Silence settles inside the SUV. The distant ticking of the dashboard clock. Across the street, the hotel gleams, pristine and elegant.

A playground for people rich enough to think money protects them.

Oblivious to the fact that they’re sleeping inside a graveyard.

My mind flashes to Selene.

To her chin tipped high when she thinks she’s winning.

To the furious fire in her eyes when she defies me. Beautiful.

Wild.

Impossible.

Let’s see how well ghosts protect you from fire, Selene.

“Ten seconds,” Kyle murmurs.

His breathing slows.

“Wind north-west at four knots. Crosshairs locked on the balcony. I see movement inside the suite.”

I live for this.

Destruction.

Reconstruction.

And the certainty that when the smoke clears, I’m the only thing left standing.

“Showtime.”

I press the button.

The ground beneath the SUV bucks violently as a deafening boom rips through midnight.

The west wing erupts outward in a cascade of orange flame, shattered glass, and pulverized stone.

The shockwave slams into the vehicle hard enough to rattle the windows. Debris sprays the windshield. A second later, alarms scream across the district.

Through the smoke, the structural columns groan exactly as Kyle predicted. The west wing tilts and collapses into the courtyard.

“Clean hit,” Kyle says into the static.

“Chaos in the lobby. Security’s scrambling. I have visual on the third-floor balcony.”

He adjusts. “The glass is blown. Someone’s moving.”

I shove the SUV door open. Rain and cold Paris air hit my face. I draw the customized Beretta from my shoulder holster.