Page 99 of Gilded Shackles
I jump. Heart slamming. Another shot. A third. Then screams.
I crawl off the bed and crouch behind the dresser, gun clutched to my chest, body shaking.
Chaos outside the door. Boots pounding. Someone yellingthey're here!Another voice:cover the north hall!
Jeffrey's voice, close, right outside: "Stay down! If anyone tries to take you, shoot them!"
I can barely breathe. "What's happening?"
He doesn't answer. I hear him run.
Seconds stretch into forever.
I stay behind the dresser, finger on the trigger, metal digging into my palm. The lights flicker. My ears ring from gunfire echoing through the walls.
I count shots. Like they'll tell me who's winning.
A sound at the door. Not the handle. A thud. Then another. Someone testing the lock from outside.
I raise the gun. Both hands shaking. If it's not Jeffrey, if it's not Nikolai, I shoot. That's what he said. Don't think. Don't wait.
The lock gives. The door swings open.
A man I've never seen fills the doorway. Armed. Not one of Gayle's. Different tactical gear, different stance. He sees me, sees the gun in my hands, and raises one palm.
"Mrs. Ivanov." Calm. Professional. "Viktor sent us. Your husband is two floors up. We're clearing the building."
My arms drop. The relief is so sudden it nearly takes my legs out.
"Where's Nikolai?" I manage.
"Coming to you. Stay here. Stay low."
He moves on. More men behind him, sweeping the hallway with military precision. Not the sloppy thugs Gayle hired. These are trained. These are Viktor's best.
The sounds of fighting get closer. Louder. Then closer still. I hear Nikolai's voice somewhere above me, shouting orders, and the sound cracks something open in my chest that I didn't know was sealed.
He's here. He's actually here.
I press my back against the wall, gun still in my hands, and wait. The building shakes with another round of gunfire. Glass breaks somewhere. A body hits a floor hard enough to make the ceiling rattle.
Then footsteps. Fast. Getting closer.
The door pushes open.
And there he is.
Nikolai.
He looks half-alive. Drenched, eyes bloodshot, a bruise forming on his jaw. His chest heaves like he's been running through hell itself. His shirt is torn at the shoulder and there's blood on his hands, though I can't tell whose.
When his gaze finds me, it's like air rushing back into a vacuum.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then I set the gun down carefully on the dresser, and run.
He catches me halfway across the room. His arms wrap around me so tight it knocks the breath from my lungs. My hands clutch his shirt, my face pressed to his chest, and I breathe him in. Rain. Smoke. Gunpowder. Nikolai.
