A Crown of Ashes
They hit the second floor, a long hall stretching into dark, doors everywhere like a damn trap.
Roman shoved her left, gun raised, eyes darting. “Study’s up here,” he said. “We can block it off.”
“You know this place way too good,” she panted, ducking past him as they ran. “What else you hiding?”
“Lots,” he said, blunt as a brick, kicking open a thick oak door. The room stank of leather and old cigars—Dorian’s ghost all over it. A big desk sat heavy in the middle, bookshelves climbing to the ceiling, a window showing the cliffs and the sea thrashing below.
Bab Populer