Sirens. Blood on marble. The smell of gunpowder and old incense and the cold, mineral scent of stone that had been standing for two centuries.Sophia stood over Marcus with the candlestick raised, and every muscle in her body was singing with a frequency she’d never felt before not rage, not fear, but the pure, crystalline clarity of a woman who had finally stopped being the person things happened to and become the person who decided what happened next.Marcus lunged.It was stupid and desperate and exactly the kind of move she would have expected from a man who’d spent his entire life believing he could take whatever he wanted by force. He came low, going for her legs, and Sophia sidestepped Kira’s training, the hours in the gym, the muscle memory of a body that had learned to move when someone moved at itand brought the candlestick down on his shoulder.The impact traveled up her arm like electricity. Marcus hit the stone floor with a sound that was part grunt, part howl, and stayed dow
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