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I raised the pistol. Both hands. Just like he showed me.
The doorway filled my sights. My finger found the trigger. Curled.
“NYSSA!”
His voice.
The gun trembled.
Because I knew.
Alaric.
The pistol slipped from my hands.
It hit the floor.
“ALARIC!” I screamed.
I was already running for the door as it burst inward.
He was there. Eyes wide. Frantic. I collided with his body. His hands shaking as he clutched me.
“Show me.” His voice was a croak. “Let me see.”
He pulled me back. His hands were shaking. They moved over my face. My shoulders. My arms. My ribs. Searching. Measuring. Making sure I was whole. They stopped when they reached my hands. The red of the ribbon barely peeking between my fingers. They were trembling so badly neither of could ignore it.
“CLEAR!” Someone called out.
Boots thundered in the hallway headed toward us.
“He was here.” I clutched his shirt.
“I know.” He answered.
Rafe swept the room once. Window. Closet. Balcony. He turned toward the desk. Stopped. Every trace of color disappeared from his face.
“Alaric.”
But Alaric didn’t move. Not right away. He closed his eyes. A sharp breath filled his lungs. When he opened them again…
Fear had become something colder.
Fury.
He walked slowly. Carefully. Deliberately.
Toward the desk.
I followed.
My gaze caught on the slash of red. The other half of the ribbon. Pinned to the polished timber. My knife driven cleanly through it.
My hand shook harder. My fingers slowly unfurled. The satin slipped into my palm.
A sob escaped me.
Alaric looked up.
