Page 112 of Betrayal and Vows

"How? She won't see you."

I'm already moving, heading back toward the house. "Then I'll make her see me."

"That's suicide."

Maybe. But I'd rather die trying to save her than live knowing I gave up.

The house reeks of roses and lilies, the scent so thick it feels like walking into a perfume bottle. It’s cloying. Overwhelming in the worst way. Everywhere I look, there are white flowers. Cascading from the staircase banister, arranged in towering displays in every corner, draped around doorways like funeral wreaths. Which, I suppose, is exactly what they are.

Staff members rush past me carrying crystal vases and silver candelabras. I can feel the tension in the air with the panic of last-minute preparations. A woman in a black uniform nearly collides with me as she hurries down the hall, her arms full of white silk ribbons.

"Excuse me," she mutters, not bothering to look up.

I blend into the chaos, just another body moving through the house. I adjust my jacket to conceal my weapon. There’s a new rule—no guns in the house.

At least no guns the guests might see.

My heart pounds against my chest as I climb the main staircase.

To my last chance.

The upstairs hallway buzzes with activity. Women I don't recognize flutter between rooms in matching pink dresses,clutching champagne flutes and giggling nervously. The sound grates against my nerves like fingernails on glass.

I can hear music drifting up from the ballroom below. The string quartet practicing their processional. The sound that will walk Lena to a dark future, should she choose.

In less than three hours, they'll play it for real as Lena walks down the aisle to destroy both our lives.

I'm twenty feet from her door when I feel it. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Time slows. It’s the prickle of awareness that comes from being watched.

My training kicks in automatically. I scan the hallway without turning my head. Two of Mikhail's guards stand at the far end, their positions too casual to be coincidental. Another one lingers near the guest bathroom, pretending to check his phone.

They're waiting for me.

I keep walking, my pace steady and professional. Just a bodyguard making his rounds. But my hand drifts toward my weapon. I calculate distances, angles, cover points. Three men, maybe more I haven't spotted yet. The hallway is long and narrow—a killing box if this goes sideways.

I'm five feet from Lena's door when they move.

The first one comes from behind, trying to grab my arms. I spin and drive my elbow into his gut, doubling him over. The second guard rushes me from the front. I barely manage to catch him with an uppercut that snaps his head back.

But the third one has his gun out, and I hear the distinctive click of a safety being released.

"Enough," a voice says from behind me.

I turn slowly; hands raised and find myself staring down the barrel of a pistol. Behind him stand four more guards, all armed, all wearing expressions that tell me this was planned down to the last detail.

“Get him in the room,” one of them says.

I’m dragged into my room down the hall. Away from Lena.

Dmitri happens to come up just as I’m being shoved into the room.

I take my chance and attack. No way in hell I’m going down without a fight.

The first guard rushes me again. I drive my elbow into his throat. He drops, gasping. The second one swings a baton at my head, but I duck and slam my fist into his kidney. He stumbles backward.

"Take him down!" one of them shouts.

There are too many. Six men flood my small room, but I don't give a fuck about the odds. I grab the lamp from my nightstand and smash it across the nearest face. Blood sprays the wall.