The air inside the safehouse was thick with the remnants of a war that hadn't fully ended.Elena sat at the edge of Killian’s bed, her fingers curled tightly around his hand. His skin was cold with sweat, pallid beneath the dim golden light spilling in from the corner lamp. Machines beeped steadily behind him, measuring heartbeats and breaths, and the faint hum of an oxygen tank filled the silence between them.She hadn’t moved from that spot since they’d returned.Not when the doctors pushed her back gently. Not when Reid told her they needed to clear the compound in case Victor had left more traps. Not even when Ada Blackwood came in earlier with a storm in her eyes and a thousand unsaid judgments pressing between her teeth.Killian was alive—but barely. The bullet had gone deep, missing his heart by centimeters. But it had torn through enough to make even the doctors exchange grim looks behind closed doors. He hadn't woken yet. And each hour that passed stretched the threads of Ele
The hum of the Manhattan skyline outside Killian’s penthouse felt different now.Colder. Louder. More distant.Killian stood by the glass, unmoving, as if the view itself might offer answers. But none came. Only silence and a gut-deep weight that had settled into his bones.Behind him, the room was still.Everything in its place. Impeccably arranged. Except the man inside it.He hadn’t slept.He hadn’t spoken since the message arrived an hour ago: She has it. She’s coming.“Elena…” He whispered her name like it might shatter if said too loud.He didn’t know whether to run to her or away.Then—three knocks at the door.He didn’t move at first.Then a fourth knock, slower. More deliberate.He turned.His footsteps echoed through the empty space as he approached the door, every muscle taut. For a moment, he hesitated—his hand hovering over the handle.And then he opened it.There she was.Drenched from the storm outside. Hair plastered to her skin. Blood on her shirt from the shoulder wo
The power cut plunged the entire bunker into blackness.For a second, the world held its breath. No sound. No movement. Only the deep, groaning hum of emergency generators struggling to kick in.Then—chaos.Shouts erupted from the auction hall as masked elites scattered like insects under a shattered glass dome. Security scrambled to contain the disorder, their radios hissing with static. Some guests screamed. Others pulled weapons. Everyone ran—toward exits, toward darkness, away from whatever threat they could not see but instinctively feared.And through it all, Elena moved like a shadow.She ran through narrow maintenance corridors slick with condensation, her boots silent against the steel. The bag of stolen evidence was heavy on her back, but her steps were sure. Focused.Lucien had said Checkpoint Seven. Northeast wing. Sub-level two.She was already cutting through level one.Gunfire cracked in the distance—short, sharp bursts. The kind meant to scare. Or kill.Elena didn’t fl
The plane descended into darkness.Below them, the Adriatic Sea shimmered like black silk under a waning moon. The small private island—unmarked on any map—jutted from the water like a phantom. It didn’t look like a place where empires crumbled or fortunes traded hands in blood. It looked abandoned, windswept, wild.But Elena knew better.The auction was being held beneath it—in the labyrinthine tunnels and forgotten bunkers that once belonged to Yugoslavian warlords. The perfect place for people who never wanted to be seen.Lucien’s voice cut through the silence of the cabin. “They’ll scan us the moment we land. Weapons hidden, identities confirmed, and if we’re lucky... no one will recognize your face.”She glanced at him. “I don’t believe in luck. Just leverage.”His smirk was faint. “You sound more like me than Killian these days.”“Let’s just get in, get what we need, and get out alive.”The jet touched down on a sleek black strip that looked more like a relic than a runway. Imme
Killian’s voice was rough, but his eyes were clear.“Tell me everything,” he said, fingers lacing through Elena’s with surprising strength. “No lies. No soft edges.”Elena didn’t sugarcoat it.She told him everything—the truth about Victor’s confessions, about Margot’s faked death, the hidden auction in Montenegro, and Sophia’s betrayal. She recounted Dante’s findings and how Margot had manipulated them all from the shadows, using Victor as a pawn, and how her goal was nothing short of obliteration—of Graves, of the Romanos, of everything their families had built.Killian listened silently, jaw clenched, the rhythm of the heart monitor spiking slightly every time her voice trembled.When she finished, he let out a long breath, his fingers tightening around hers.“She always liked to make the kill look like a game,” he muttered. “And I always underestimated just how deep her hatred went.”Elena studied him. “Why didn’t you ever tell me more about her? The truth?”His eyes met hers, fil
The hospital corridors were unusually quiet the next morning, bathed in soft sunlight that spilled through the tall windows. Nurses moved silently, speaking in low murmurs, and the scent of antiseptic clung to everything. Elena stood at the window of Killian’s room, arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching the day break over the city.He hadn’t woken up yet.His vitals were strong, the doctor had reassured her. The surgery was successful, and he was expected to make a full recovery. But that didn’t stop the unease crawling through her ribs, the tight coil of dread that hadn’t eased since the warehouse.Behind her, the monitor beeped steadily—comforting and terrifying at the same time.“You look like hell,” a familiar voice said gently.Elena turned, her face softening as Reid stepped into the room with a thermos in hand. “That’s because I feel like hell.”He handed her the thermos. “Fresh coffee. Not the hospital kind.”She took it gratefully and gave him a tired smile. “You’re a