19 — Guest

The knock wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Three soft raps—spaced evenly, deliberate, like someone tapping on the inside of a coffin.

Eirwen froze first.

Domenik froze second—but only in the way a predator stills before the strike. His eyes sharpened. His hand lifted, palm out, commanding silence. Talia held her breath without being told.

The world outside the safehouse went quiet.

A trickle of rain slid down the boarded window.

The knock came again.

Domenik moved. Slow. Precise. Controlled.

He crossed the room, put his hand against Eirwen’s abdomen, and eased her back a single step. His fingers stayed there—warm, possessive—until he felt her obey.

She hated how her pulse jumped.

He didn’t.

“Stay behind me,” he murmured, voice low enough to taste. “If that door opens wrong, you move when I tell you. Not a second before.”

His thumb brushed her hip. A command disguised as a touch.

The knock came a third time.

Talia whispered, “We should run.”

Domenik didn’t look back. “Running is noise. We use silence.”

He approached the door, gun already drawn, barrel angled down in a stance that promised violence.

Eirwen’s heart hammered so hard it hurt.

She felt stupid for wanting to grab the back of his coat.

When he glanced at her, for a split second she thought he could hear the thought.

He unlocked the first bolt with a soft click.

The second.

The third.

Then—

A breath.

A pause.

A promise of something breaking.

He yanked the door open, gun raised—

—and caught the visitor with that same weapon pressed against the hollow of his throat.

Detective Morgan Heller.

Face bruised. Shirt torn. One eye nearly swollen shut. His badge was gone; his hands were empty.

“Don’t shoot,” he rasped, stumbling inside before Domenik could decide. “If you want to live, you’re going to listen.”

Domenik slammed him against the wall.

“Wrong entrance,” he said calmly.

Heller wheezed, choking on air. “The Civic Shadow—sent me—”

Domenik pressed harder. “They don’t send rats. They burn them.”

“Then consider me half-cooked,” Heller snapped, blood on his teeth.

Eirwen stepped closer, gun raised. “What do you want?”

He didn’t look at her—he looked at Domenik.

“They put out a contract on her.”

He jerked his chin toward Eirwen.

“And on your hacker friend.”

Talia tensed. “Why? I’m nothing.”

“Yeah,” Heller said bitterly. “That’s what makes you dangerous. You weren’t on anyone’s list until you refused to die.”

Domenik’s jaw flexed. “Say the rest.”

Heller swallowed, eyes darting toward Eirwen as if afraid the truth would cut him open.

“They want the Widow alive.”

Silence fell like a blade.

Eirwen felt the room tilt—just barely—like gravity shifted its loyalty.

“My mother is dead,” she said.

Heller shook his head. “Then someone forgot to tell her ghost. Because the Civic Shadow’s been tracking her movements for months.”

Domenik’s grip tightened so fast Heller hissed.

“You expect me to believe the Shadow survived a decade without flinching? Without a whisper?”

“She’s been operating behind the Várgr,” Heller coughed. “They call her the architect.”

Talia dropped onto the couch as if the pain finally registered. “This is insane. The Widow died with the rest of the Caydes.”

“Did she?” Heller asked softly. “Because someone with her signature just ordered your execution, sweetheart.”

Eirwen felt cold all the way to her bones.

Domenik finally released Heller. The man sagged, coughing, clutching his throat.

“You came here,” Domenik said, “with nothing but your life in your hands.”

Heller looked up, breathing hard. “Because I want to keep it. Civic Shadow sent a strike team. They’ll be here any minute. You need to move.”

A loud crack outside made the building tremble.

Not thunder.

Gunfire.

Close.

Too close.

Domenik crossed the room with a speed that made Eirwen’s breath stop. He grabbed her by the waist and shoved her behind him as the windows rattled.

“You said they want the Widow alive,” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

“And my empire burned.”

“Yeah.”

“And Eirwen—”

“Is the key,” Heller whispered.

Domenik’s hand tightened on her hip.

Not gentle.

Not reassuring.

Claiming.

Eirwen’s breath hitched.

The detective continued, voice shaking:

“She’s coming for you.”

Outside, engines roared.

Boots hit pavement.

Doors slammed.

A voice shouted orders.

Domenik turned Eirwen’s face toward his, gripping her jaw lightly but firmly.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice dark velvet. “Whatever happens next, you do not run from me. Not now. Not while the city wants your blood.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m not afraid.”

“You are.” His thumb brushed her lips. “But you’re still here.”

The building shuddered as the first tear-gas canisters hit the lower windows.

“We need to go!” Talia rasped.

Lights flickered.

Shadows moved outside.

Heller’s voice cracked as he backed away from the door.

“They’re here. The Civic Shadow. They’re armed to—”

The door shook violently.

Once.

Twice.

A hinge snapped.

Domenik lifted his weapon.

Eirwen lifted hers.

Talia pulled herself upright with a hiss.

Heller pressed himself to the far wall, praying under his breath.

Another impact.

Another.

And—

The lock exploded inward.

The door swung open.

And standing there—

Boots splattered with rain.

Coat dripping.

Four soldiers behind her.

A gun in her hand.

Her face carved from ice and war.

Eyes just like Eirwen’s.

The Widow.

She smiled at her daughter.

“Hello, little ghost.”

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Next chapter unlocks: Shatterpoint

The past opens the door. Only the ruthless walk through.