Page 98 of Decimation

Devin’s gaze sharpens. “The woman upstairs?”

“Her name is Leandra.” I don’t know why I tell him that. Names are dangerous things but Devin is about to put his life on the line for her, and he deserves to know what he’s protecting. “She’s mine, and Konstantine is looking for her.”

“Does he know she’s here?”

“No, and he won’t find out. But I have to leave, and I need someone I trust to guard this place while I’m gone.” I step closer, close enough that I can see the faint scar on his jaw, the one I know Paitlyn gave him years ago. “Can I trust you, Devin?”

“You know you can.”

“I need to hear you say it.”

He holds my gaze. “I’ll protect her with my life. No one gets in. No one gets near her. You have my word.”

The word of a man who defied the Brethren to save the woman he loved. It’s worth more than gold. More than blood.

I clasp his shoulder. “There’s a room prepared for you. Third door on the left, upstairs. The security system is armed, and there are enough of my men here to fight an army. If anything, anything, feels wrong, you call me.”

“And if I can’t reach you?”

“Then you kill first and ask questions never.”

Devin’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “My favourite kind of orders.”

I leave him there in the foyer with Icarus burning on the wall, and step out into the cold morning air. The sky is starting to lighten, grey bleeding into the edges of the darkness.

As I slide into the driver’s seat of my car, I let out a breath.

Leandra is safe.

Devin will guard her with his life, and I believe him. I have to believe him. The alternative is unthinkable.

I start the engine and pull away from the mansion, watching it shrink in the rearview mirror until it’s just another shadow on the horizon.

The drive to Zayn’s estate takes two hours.

I spend most of it thinking about my brother. About next steps, because there has to be next steps. Even if Ezekiel acts today, the result will not be instant. I need weeks, three at the most for all of this to truly work.

But I do not have weeks. I do not have days.

I run my hand over my face, trying to see another option, but there is none. I cannot kill him outright without consequences. I need Antonio to do this, I need him to play his part.

This has to be done right.

And to do it right, requires time.

Zayn’s house appears at the end of a long, winding drive lined with ancient oaks. It’s a Tudor revival mansion, all half-timbering and steeply pitched roofs, the kind of place that looks like it’s been standing for five hundred years even though it was built in the 1920s. The grounds are immaculate, the gardens manicured, and there are guards everywhere.

I count six as I drive up. Two at the gate, two patrolling the perimeter, two stationed at the front door. They’re all armed, all alert, all wearing the subtle insignia of Zayn’s personal security detail. When they see my car, they wave me through without hesitation.

They know who I am. They know better than to stop me.

I park in front of the main entrance and kill the engine. The house looms above me, its windows dark and watchful. I’ve always found Zayn’s home unsettling, though I’ve never been able to articulate why. Maybe it’s the way the shadows pool in the corners. Maybe it’s the silence that seems to press against your eardrums like a held breath.

Or maybe it’s the knowledge that Zayn himself is one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever met, wheelchair or no wheelchair.

I let myself in through the front door. The foyer is cavernous, a two-story space with a grand staircase and a chandelier that probably costs more than most people’s houses. The security detail inside nods at me as I pass and I nod back, already scanning, already listening.

For the sound of a child.