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An angry shout.
“Get off me—”
“That’s Marshall,” Roma breathed. He shot off in a sprint. “Marshall!”
“Wait, Roma,” Juliette snapped. “Roma!”
She raced after him, hands on her pistol, finger curled about the trigger. But by the time she arrived, weapon outstretched and aimed, it was too late to gain the upper hand. Roma had already skidded into the room and walked right into an ambush, forced to place his hands over his head as three Scarlets leveled their guns at him.
“Would you look at that?” Tyler clicked his tongue. Alisa whimpered. “At once, the big fish all come swimming in.”
“Tyler,” Juliette hissed.
Tyler shook his head before she could say anything more. Every move coming from him was a slow moment of carefully contained fury—except his arm, steady as ever while he kept his weapon pointed at Alisa. “Tell me, tángjie. Who are you aiming at right now?”
Juliette did not know. She had raised her gun for the sake of raising it, for the sake of having something to do if events erred sideways, but she supposed it already had, and it had been erring for a long, long time. Slowly, Juliette lowered her weapon, her hands shaking.
The Scarlets in the room looked upon her in disdain. She understood. Tyler had discovered the truth of her alliance with the White Flowers and had come to enact his revenge. He had turned the Scarlets against her, had painted a picture of her betrayal. Their eyes flickered between her and Roma, and in that moment, with startling clarity, Juliette realized her mistake. It was her fault for believing. For hoping.
A love like theirs was never going to survive in a city divided by hatred.
This would be the death of them all.
Unless Juliette could save them.
Breathe. She was not merely the heiress who had come from the West, a caricature ripe for their rumors, ripe to be painted as easily swayed, easily manipulated, her heartstrings open to pluck at a moment’s notice.
Smile. She was a monster in her own right.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Juliette asked. Her voice came out level, edging on dull.
“Redeeming your lack of judgment. You’ve betrayed us, Juliette. Pulled us back miles in this feud.” Tyler shook his head. “I’ll make up for it. Worry not.”
His finger tightened on the trigger.
“Stop,” Juliette snapped. “You absolute idiot. You think I betrayed you? You think you’re doing us a favor by killing all the Montagovs? It’s a trick, Tyler. All you shall invite with their deaths is retribution upon our family.”
Tyler laughed harshly. “Don’t try fooling your way out of this—”
“I tell the truth—”
“But you have always been a liar.”
A sudden shot rang through the room then, tearing a startled cry from Juliette’s throat. Only it was not from Tyler’s gun. It came from the pistol that Marshall suddenly wrenched from the Scarlet nearest to him, turned against its owner. The Scarlet dropped to the floor. Marshall lunged forward—hoping to save Alisa, hoping for one frantic shot to move Tyler out of the way.
Then Tyler whipped his pistol up and fired first. Marshall sank to the ground. His hand went to his ribs, where a blotch of red bloomed.
“Mars!” Benedikt roared.
“Don’t you dare,” a Scarlet hissed immediately. He jammed his gun hard into Benedikt’s temple. It stopped Benedikt dead in his tracks, unable to move a single step toward Marshall lest he be shot too. The Scarlets would find any reason to shoot. Juliette knew they would.
“You are all mad,” Marshall managed from the floor. He winced. The blood started to pour through his fingers, making a mess that dripped and dripped onto the floor. “You are all cursed. Montagovs and Cais alike. There’s a plague on both your damn houses.”
Tyler raised his gun again.
“Stop,” Juliette demanded. “Stop—”
Another gunshot. This one from Roma. He had sidestepped one of the men, managed to fire once in the time it took them to get him under control again. His bullet merely skimmed Tyler’s shoulder, sending Tyler back a step, hissing in pain.
