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“Give me a gun,” she said. “I’ll show you where the best place for me is.”
He gave her a look.
“I’m not risking your life—”
“I’d be more worried about whoever’s stalking the halls,” she interrupted. “I’m an excellent tracker.”
“No,” he said firmly. “Stay here.”
With that, he took the gun handed to him by Misha, turned on his heel and left the room. The door closed behind him. The lock clicked. It was a relief to know his family would be safe. That she would be safe.
“The second shot,” Misha said as they headed back the way they’d just come to make their way up into the heart of the house. “It was aimed at a painting of your father. Hit it between the eyes.”
A blunt enough message. Dmitri wasn’t even in the least bit surprised. Of course, this was about his father. This man, who had forever had such a hard time making friends instead of enemies. Of course, it was all about him.
“CCTV?” he asked.
“Nothing so far,” Misha said.
“Nothing?”
“No,” Misha said, turning a corner and leading the way into the large parlor where the portrait hung, bullet wound indeed leaving a black hole in Vasili’s forehead.
Dmitri took it in, hiding his fascination with how the sight didn’t even faze him. He’d grown up not expecting his father to survive long. Of course, it would take more than a bullet to the head to kill an elder dragon, but the provided visual was still effective.
Should they all simply shift? The house wasn’t built to accommodate their true forms—it simply hadn’t been feasible—so they would have to go out into the grounds. Perhaps he could have his family stolen away. Then again, the danger that came with stepping outside in dragon shape was probably greater than them staying tucked out of sight in the saferoom.
“Plan of action?” he asked Misha.
“Team one has started in the east wing. They’ll do a firewall. Search every room. Move through the house to the west wing.”
“Team two?”
“The grounds. Team three is patrolling the lake.”
“Good.”
The sound of the doorknob turning made both men raise their guns to it, but it was Alina who poked her head through, not some out-of-control gunman. Dmitri huffed, lowering the gun.
“Jesus, you could’ve been shot,” he said.
“Unlikely,” she retorted, entering the room, gun in one hand.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.
“I told you. I’m a good tracker. I can help.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman?”
He gave her a look at that, feeling she deserved one. Of course, this wasn’t about her being a woman. The look in her eye told him she already knew that. She was teasing him in the middle of a possible death trap having been set for them. It should make him want to lock her in a dark room, but for some reason, all it did was make him want to keep her close. Her presence had a focusing effect, made it not be all about him. So, he stopped quibbling, instead eyeing her weapon.
“You trained in handling that?” he asked.
“Well enough,” she said.
“Okay, then.” He nodded to the painting, its wound. “This is where the perp has spent at least a moment of their time. Track away.”
