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The doctors had assured me the gunshot wound would heal and that, with the proper rest and rehab, Vuk would walk properly again in a few months to a year. He was lucky; the bullet had made a clean exit and missed his major arteries.

Still, the sight of him bruised and injured made my eyes burn.

I would never forget his involuntary flinch when the bullet tore through his thigh, or the terror that’d smothered me when Emmanuelle aimed her gun at him the second time.

I couldn’t even remember my thought process in that moment. I only remembered freeing myself while Shadow distracted Wentworth and Vuk tried to subdue Emmanuelle—I’d quietly worked on my knots the whole time they were talking, and it’d paid off.

I remembered grabbing Wentworth’s gun before he could retrieve it.

And I remembered lifting it and shooting Emmanuelle right between the eyes.

If I hadn’t, she would’ve killed Vuk. That’d been my only thought, so I hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t even really aimed. I just…did it.

I killed someone.

My hand trembled. I moved to pull away, but Vuk’s hand covered mine a moment later, trapping it between his leg and his solid, comforting touch.

“It’s a surface wound. Don’t worry,srce. I’ve endured worse,” he said. Only Vuk would call a bullet to the leg a “surface wound.” “Now I have another scar to add to my collection.”

I didn’t laugh. “That’s not funny. You could’vedied. You could’ve…I would’ve…” My throat closed. The burn in my eyes intensified, and a tiny trickle scorched my cheek. “I can’t believe you agreed to thatstupidplan by that Roland guy?—”

“Roman.” Vuk’s mouth twitched.

“Whatever. It was a terrible plan, and he could’ve gotten you killed, and then what would I have done?” The tears were flowing fast and free now.

He’d explained the plan when I came to see him the morning after our escape. Apparently, Roland—I mean, Roman—was a Brotherhood member who’d been secretly helping him this whole time. He’d saved Sean from getting killed when he slipped away during the Vuk and Emmanuelle confrontation. Apparently, Sean had been overpowered by the other Brothers until Roman went back to check on him and get more backup. Roman had also carried Vuk to safety after I insisted they go ahead.

None of that meant his plan wasn’t stupid.

“It wasn’t the best plan, but it worked out in the end. I’m okay,” Vuk said tenderly. He curled his fingers around mine. “I’m more worried about you.”

I swiped at my tears. “I’m fine. The doctor said my shoulder will heal in a few weeks.”

Vuk’s team took us straight to his house after we escaped. He had a private medical wing set up to treat his members’ injuries as well as two private doctors on call. Apparently, they never went to the hospital for “work-related” injuries—too much paperwork and too much hassle.

Vuk’s doctors were the best of the best, and I trusted them.

“I’m not talking about your injuries,srce,” Vuk said. He examined me, his brow furrowing. “If you want to speak to someone about what happened, I know a therapist. Mira. She helped me after my brother died, although I never saw her regularly. She’s good.”

I managed a smile. “If you say she’s good, she must be fantastic.” He didn’t dole out compliments easily. “I might take you up on that after everything settles.” I let out a sniffling laugh. “She’s going to be so sick of me in a few months.”

I had alotto talk about in therapy.

I didn’t regret killing Emmanuelle. It was her or Vuk, and even if she weren’t evil, I would choose him. Every time.

When he told me about Roman’s plan, he also revealed the truth about her side activities and what she’d coerced some of the agency’s girls to do. I was still reeling from the revelation.

Her involvement with the Brotherhood was shocking enough, but the fact that Emmanuelle Beaumont—the polished former supermodel and industry legend—had run what was basically a high-end prostitution ring boggled my mind.

Vuk’s team had anonymously leaked that information the night after the fire, along with the news about her and Wentworth’s deaths. The cover-up story was that Emmanuelle and Wentworth were lovers, and they were killed by a vengeful ex-client of hers that she’d tried to blackmail.

He’d sent the proof of her wrongdoings to all the major outlets, and it sparked an absolute media firestorm. The FBI had already taken over Beaumont’s offices and frozen its accounts while it investigated. Emmanuelle’s old lawsuit against me was dead and buried. No one even remembered it.

My parents had freaked out when they heard, and they freaked out even more when I told them I’d sprained my shoulder in a gym accident. My mother wanted to come up and take care of me until I was fully healed, but I’d quickly shot her down. That would be too close for comfort.

There was no way I could tell my parents the truth about my kidnapping or what I did. They would lock me up and never let me out of their sight again—if they didn’t keel over from shock first. They said Emmanuelle’s death was karma, not knowing their daughter was the one who’d delivered it.

Maybe it was karma, but Emmanuelle had still been a person. A living, breathing person whose life I snuffed out with one pull of the trigger.