Page 167 of Dance of Ruin

THUD.

I jolt upright on the couch, heart punching my ribs. The reality show is still playing, but that sound didn’t come from the TV.

It came from the door.

I snap my head toward it and shriek when another slam rocks it, so hard that the frame splinters.

My blood ices over, and I’m already running as the door burstsin behind me.

I bolt into the kitchen, bare feet skidding on the tile, and dive into the walk-in pantry. I shove the slatted door closed behind me and crouch low, forcing myself not to sob, or breathe too loud, or shake.

I hear the low thud of boots on the hardwood floor.

“Fan out,” a voice grunts quietly. “She’s here. The Marquis’ orders are kill on sight.”

My heart stops.

I bite down a gasp and press my hand to my mouth, crouched behind a rack of canned tomatoes and imported oils, eyes locked on the entryway through the thin wooden slats.

Four of them move into the apartment dressed in tactical gear, faces covered, guns out.

One moves to the bedroom. Another heads down the back hallway.

A third starts for the kitchen.

…Straight toward me.

He moves with precise, deliberate movements, like he already knows I’m here. Like this is a game that I’ve already lost.

My whole body trembles. I shrink back farther against the shelves, nails digging into the wood.

He’s almost at the door.

Two more steps and he’ll?—

Gunshots rip through the silence.

I scream and flinch. But the man standing right in front of the door whirls away from me at the sound, and I realize it’s someoneelseshooting.

More rapid-fire shots tear through the air, followed by a man screaming in pain. Another shot, another cry.

The man in the kitchen is backing up toward me when he suddenly grunts, reeling backward, blood erupting from his torso and spurting across the floor.

My hands slam over my mouth, trapping my scream just as another figure slowly moves into the kitchen.

Moving with dark intent. Gun drawn. Walkingrighttoward me.

Please. I don’t want to die like this.

Please, please, please?—

The pantry door slams open and I scream, raising my hands to shield myself.

“Naomi!”

It’s Nico.

He storms into the pantry like madness unleashed, eyes blazing, smoke still curling from the barrel of his gun. He grabs me and pulls me to him like I’m oxygen, and I collapse into his arms with a sob, clinging to him, choking on relief.

---