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I barely had time to shut my eyes before another sharp crack echoed—the man’s neck breaking.

Gunshots rang out from the hallway, and I jumped. Instinct propelled me forward, stepping over the lifeless body to run outside.

Sienna ! The boys !

But again, Nikolai stopped me, pulling me back inside.

“Stay here, Selina !” he commanded, pushing me down onto the bed before stepping out and slamming the door shut behind him.

Leaving me alone.

With a corpse.

Chapter thirty-two

Nikolai

I closed the door behind me, tightening my grip on my gun. I didn’t know what was happening, but if a single hair on my family’s head had been harmed, I would burn them all alive.

It had been Sienna’s scream we heard. From the children’s room.

The children.

I moved swiftly in that direction as gunfire echoed throughout the house and outside. I ducked just in time as a man appeared on the stairs, his gun aimed at me. He fired, and the antique vase Elif had bought three years ago shattered beside me.

Blayt.

I fired back. The bullet hit his knee, and he tumbled down the stairs with a grunt of pain.

I climbed to my feet, groaning as shards of glass bit into my legs. Note to self: next time, put on joggers before leaving the bedroom. Fighting in boxers was far from ideal.

Just as I passed the staircase, a sudden weight crashed onto my back, knocking me down again and sending my gun skidding across the floor.

For fuck’s sake—how many of them were there ? And how had they gotten in ?

I drove my elbow toward my attacker’s throat, but he dodged, wrapping an arm around my neck in a chokehold. I slammed the back of my head into his nose, making him recoil just enough for me to break free and flip onto my back.

This time, my foot connected with his face. As I pushed myself up, he raised his gun—and the shot rang out.

But it was he who collapsed, a bullet hole between his eyes.

I looked up to see Sasha at the top of the stairs, his gun still aimed, blood dripping from his brow, chest heaving.

“Sienna ? The boys ?” he asked, panting.

I grabbed my weapon and rushed toward the children’s room, my stomach twisting at the sight of the door wide open.

Nausea surged as I spotted bloodstains on the floor. A man lay sprawled on the mattress where Mikhail had been sleeping, his mask torn away, a scar slashing across his cheek, his throat slit—likely the fatal blow.

I stepped inside, gun raised, Sasha close behind. Then I heard the crying.

I braced myself for the worst—for blood, for bodies, for losses that would tear us apart.

I was prepared for everything.

Except what I saw.

The children were huddled in the farthest corner of the room, pressed together like frightened chicks behind Mikhail, who stood in front of them, arms spread wide.