Crimson Snow

The darkness was absolute.

"Stay down," Nikolai whispered. The tenderness was gone, replaced by the cold, metallic tone of a soldier.

The sound of shattering glass echoed from the foyer. Not a dropped glass—a breach.

"They are here," Nikolai hissed. He pulled a gun from the small of his back. He moved with supernatural speed, grabbing Elara and dragging her behind the heavy marble kitchen island.

"Who?" Elara gasped.

"The Moretti family," Nikolai said, checking the magazine. "They know I have been... distracted. They think I am weak."

Gunfire erupted. It was loud, deafeningly loud in the enclosed space. Bullets sparked off the marble countertop above their heads.

Nikolai turned to her. In the flashes of muzzle fire, she saw his face. He looked terrified. Not for himself—she realized with a jolt—but for her.

"The Winter Garden," he commanded. "Go."

"What?"

"The greenhouse. The glass is bulletproof. Go to the back. Hide behind the orchids. Do not come out."

"Nikolai—"

"Go!" he roared, shoving her toward the sliding glass doors at the far end of the room.

Elara scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees. She heard Nikolai rise, heard the boom of his high-caliber hand cannon returning fire. He was drawing their attention, making himself a target to buy her seconds.

She threw herself into the Winter Garden—a glass-enclosed botanical space attached to the terrace. The air inside was humid and smelled of jasmine, a stark contrast to the acrid gunpowder smoke. She crawled behind a massive planter of ferns.

Through the glass walls, she watched.

It was a slaughter. Nikolai moved like a demon, shooting with precision. But there were too many of them. Four men in tactical gear were advancing across the living room.

Nikolai took a hit. A spray of blood—real blood this time, not pigment—splattered onto the white floor. He stumbled, falling back against the ruined mural.

One of the assassins moved in, aiming a shotgun at Nikolai’s chest.

Elara froze.

She should stay hidden. This was her chance. If Nikolai died, the cage unlocked. If Nikolai died, she was free. She could go back to the basement. She could go back to being invisible.

She looked at Nikolai. He was bleeding, cornered, his eyes scanning the room—not for an exit, but checking the door to the Winter Garden to make sure she was safe. Even dying, his only thought was her.

* I am the only one who sees you.*

The realization hit Elara harder than the fear. She didn't want to be invisible anymore. She didn't want the safety of the dark. She wanted the fire.

She saw a heavy marble bust of a Roman emperor sitting on a plinth near the door.

Elara stood up. She grabbed the bust. It weighed thirty pounds, but adrenaline made it feel like Styrofoam.

She screamed—a primal, Banshee shriek—and hurled the bust through the interior glass pane of the garden door.

* CRASH.*

The sound was explosive. The assassin with the shotgun spun around, distracted by the noise behind him.

That split second was all Nikolai needed.

He didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, ignoring his wound, and drove a knife into the assassin’s throat. He grabbed the falling man’s shotgun, spun, and fired twice. *Boom. Boom.* The last two intruders dropped.

Silence fell.

The only sound was the wind howling outside the broken windows and Nikolai’s ragged breathing.

He stood amidst the bodies and the ruined art, covered in blood and red paint. He looked at Elara standing in the doorway of the garden.

He dropped the gun. He walked toward her. He looked like a nightmare, a creature of violence and death.

Elara didn't run. She stepped out of the garden. She walked across the blood-slicked floor to meet him.

"You foolish girl," Nikolai rasped, grabbing her shoulders. His hands left bloody prints on her sweater. "I told you to hide. You could have been killed."

"You were losing," Elara said.

"I would die a thousand times before I let them touch you," he growled, shaking her slightly. "Do you understand? You are *mine*."

"I know," she whispered.

She reached up, her hands cupping his face, smearing the blood on his cheek. She pulled him down and kissed him.

It wasn't a sweet kiss. It tasted of copper and smoke. It was a seal. A contract signed in violence. Nikolai froze for a heartbeat, then groaned, wrapping his arms around her, lifting her off her feet, crushing her to him as if he wanted to merge their skeletons.