Chapter 4 - The Scent of Gunpowder
Dominic didn't let go.
His thumb pressed firmly against the pulse point on my wrist, measuring every erratic thud of my heart. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest, could see the flecks of gold hidden deep within his dark eyes.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice low and lethal. "Before I tear this house apart looking for the answers you're hiding."
"It's a mistake," I choked out, fighting the urge to flinch. "It has to be someone trying to rattle you. Someone using me to get into your head."
"Nobody uses my people to get to me," Dominic snapped, his grip tightening just enough to warn, not to break. "And nobody penetrates my security perimeter twice in three days without an inside key. You survived an execution attempt, Mara. Or should I call you Elena?"
"My name is Mara Ellis." The lie tasted like ash, but I clung to it like a life raft. If Dominic found out I was Elena Vance—the surviving heir to the syndicate his own father had systematically dismantled eight years ago—he wouldn't protect me. He would put a bullet through my skull himself to eliminate a generational blood feud.
Dominic stared at me, his gaze sweeping over my face, parsing every micro-expression. "You're a terrible liar for someone who has managed to stay invisible this long."
Before I could reply, the sharp chime of Dominic's phone cut through the stifling tension.
He didn't release my wrist immediately. He held me there for another breath, establishing total dominance, before slowly letting his fingers slide away. He pulled a black encrypted device from his pocket and answered without taking his eyes off me.
"Speak."
The voice on the other end was frantic, high-pitched, belonging to Dominic's second-in-command, Nolan. Even from where I sat, the panic in Nolan's voice bled through the speaker.
*"Boss, we have an issue at the pier. Warehouse 14. Someone breached the perimeter. They didn't steal the shipment. They slaughtered the exterior guard team and left a message painted in blood on the shipping container."*
Dominic’s jaw set like granite. "What message?"
*" 'The debts of the past must be paid in gold or blood. Tell the Vance girl we’re waiting.' "*
Dominic didn't flinch. His expression shifted into something chillingly detached—the face of a predator preparing for war.
"Lock down the docks. Burn the container. I'm on my way," he said, terminating the call.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned his full, terrifying attention back to me.
"Warehouse 14 is where I store high-grade munitions for our overseas operations," Dominic said softly. "Only five people in the world knew that facility was active tonight. And now, whoever slaughtered my men left your name on the steel."
"Dominic, listen to me—"
"Get up."
"What?"
"Get up," he repeated, reaching down and pulling back the heavy duvet. "You're coming with me."
"I'm in no condition to go anywhere—"
"You're in no condition to be left alone in this house," Dominic countered ruthlessly. He reached into his waistband, pulled out a compact semi-automatic pistol, and held it out to me handle-first. "Take it."
I looked from the weapon to his face. "You're giving me a gun?"
"If whoever is coming for you steps through that door, I expect you to empty the magazine into their chest," Dominic said, his voice flat. "And if you try to turn it on me, know that I can draw and fire twice before your finger clears the trigger guard. Do we understand each other?"
I took the pistol. The cold, textured grip felt devastatingly familiar in my palm. The weight settled into my hand with an instinct I hadn't used in eight years.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed as he watched the way my finger rested naturally along the frame, perfectly off the trigger. He caught the familiarity immediately.
"Not a maid," he murmured, almost to himself. "Not even close."
He threw a dark jacket over my shoulders and led me out into the corridor. The Mercer compound was entirely on red alert. Red security lights pulsed along the ceilings, and men in tactical gear with assault rifles moved with synchronized, deadly efficiency through the grand hallways.
Down in the private underground garage, Dominic shoved me into the passenger seat of an armored SUV, slammed the door, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
As the heavy reinforced gate of Blackthorne House groaned open into the storm, the headlights pierced the driving rain, illuminating the dense woods flanking the driveway.
And there, standing just beyond the tree line beneath the flickering glow of an old estate lamppost, was a figure in a black trench coat.
He wasn't running. He wasn't hiding.
He stood perfectly still, raising two fingers to his temple in a mocking salute.
The headlights caught the sharp, aristocratic contours of his face, the pale eyes, and the jagged scar running from his temple to his jawline.
Lucian.
My breath trapped in my throat.
May you like
Dominic slammed his foot on the accelerator, the engine roaring like a wounded beast, tires screeching against the wet asphalt as he hurtled the three-ton vehicle straight toward the trees.
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