Chapter 9
The silence inside the panic room was agonizing. The small bunker was illuminated by the harsh glare of fluorescent lights and the flickering static of the security monitors. Several cameras had been destroyed in the firefight, but the main feed for the grand foyer was still active.
Lila sat on the edge of the cot, holding a sleeping Henry in her lap, her eyes glued to the screen.
The grand foyer was a nightmare of shattered marble, broken crystal, and blood. Smoke drifted lazily through the air. The Rowe mercenaries were heavily entrenched, using the overturned walnut consoles and velvet sofas as barricades. Standing at the center of it all, shouting orders, was Marcus Rowe—Sabrina’s father, a vicious, silver-haired boss.
Then, Tristan appeared on the screen.
He didn't sneak in. He walked down the grand sweeping staircase like a demon descending from hell. He carried an assault rifle he had stripped from a fallen guard, unleashing a devastating hail of suppressive fire as he moved.
The firefight was brutally short and terrifyingly violent. Tristan fought with a reckless, unstoppable fury that shattered the Rowe mercenaries' morale. He was a man with nothing left to lose, fighting for the lives of the woman and child locked in the dark below.
Lila watched in breathless horror as Tristan dropped his empty rifle and drew his pistol, closing the distance to Marcus Rowe. The older boss raised a weapon, but Tristan was faster. Two shots flashed on the screen. Marcus Rowe collapsed onto the ruined marble floor.
Seeing their leader fall, the remaining mercenaries broke. They threw down their weapons, turning and fleeing through the shattered front doors into the freezing snow, where Tristan’s surviving lieutenants easily rounded them up.
It was over.
Lila let out a massive, tearing sob of relief, clutching Henry to her chest.
Ten agonizing minutes passed. Then, the intercom on the bunker wall crackled to life.
"Lila," Tristan’s exhausted, raw voice echoed into the room.
Lila scrambled to the panel, hitting the button. "Tristan?"
"December," he breathed. "Open the door, sweetheart."
Lila threw her weight against the iron lever, pulling it up. The steel bolts disengaged, and the heavy door swung outward.
Tristan stood in the corridor. He was covered in soot, his tactical sweater shredded, a fresh, bloody graze along his cheekbone. He looked utterly exhausted, the heavy weight of the battle pressing down on his broad shoulders.
He dropped his weapon and fell to his knees as Lila threw herself into his arms.
"You came back," she cried, burying her face in his neck, not caring about the blood or the dirt.
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"The Rowes are broken," Tristan whispered, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, burying his face in her hair. "It's really over, Lila. They will never touch you again."
He stood up, effortlessly lifting her off her feet, before leaning down to scoop a groggy Henry into his other arm. He carried them both out of the bunker, away from the darkness, and began the long walk back up the stairs to the ruined but secure mansion. The war had been won, and the king was taking his family home.
