Page 101 of Her Darkest Possession

"I'm sorry," he whispers in my ear. "For everything before. For what I did."

The gunfire is getting louder. Closer. Men are starting to round the corner of the west wing now.

I pull back, looking up at his face. "There's nothing to apologize for, Vasya."

His eyes search mine, and there's no fear in them.

"If I'm dead when Tolya comes back," he says. "Will you tell him I went down fighting?"

Tears well up in my eyes at the grim determination in his voice.

I nod. "I will."

Vassily gives us all one final nod, steps through the doorway, and closes the heavy steel door behind him. The lock automatically engages with a heavy metallicthunkthat sounds so final. And the moment it does, all sound fades away.

"Indigo." Amara's voice sounds behind me, tight with fear. "Look."

I turn around at Amara's voice and see her pointing at one of the security monitors mounted on the wall. The screen shows the mansion's front entrance—or what's left of it. The massivedouble doors that once guarded the entrance have been reduced to splinters.

My blood runs cold as I see who's walking through the wreckage.

Lola.

She strides in with the confidence of someone who believes they've already won, her blonde hair gleaming under the chandelier light. A savage smile curls her lips as she surveys the destruction around her. Several armed men flank her on both sides, their rifles at the ready.

"No," I whisper, my fingers gripping the edge of the console until my knuckles turn white.

I quickly scan the other monitors and fight back the nausea threatening to overwhelm me. The images make my heart sink further. Volkov men are everywhere. They move through the main hall, charge up the grand staircase, and are kicking down doors to look for us.

"There are so many of them," Amara whispers, her voice trembling.

My eyes dart frantically from screen to screen. What few guards remaining are fighting back, but they're hopelessly outnumbered. I watch as one of them takes down two Volkov men before a third shoots him in the back.

Then my heart stops completely.

"No, no, no," I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth.

On one of the screens, I see several men bursting into a room with pale yellow walls—our half-finished nursery. The room Anatoly and I were painting together just hours ago. The paintcans are still there, brushes laid carefully across their tops. One of the men kicks over a can, sending pale yellow paint spilling across the floor like sunlight.

Another man drags his knife along the wall, cutting through the fresh paint and leaving a jagged scar in its wake.

"Bastards," Svetlana's voice tightens with rage. But there's nothing she can do.

My eyes are frantically searching every monitor, looking for the one person who matters most right now. For the one person who might be able to save us.

"Where is he?" I whisper, panic rising in my chest. "Where's Anatoly?"

Then, I see a blur of motion on another screen. For a moment, I think that my prayers have been answered and that Anatoly is here.

But when I look at the screen, I realize that I'm looking at Vassily.

He has the rifle shouldered and he's firing at the intruders with deadly precision. One falls, then another. His movements are fluid and practiced, like he's been training for this moment his entire life.

But even as I watch him take down another Volkov man, my heart sinks.

I can see what Vassily can't.

He's surrounded. They're coming at him from all sides, emerging from doorways and corridors like water through a sieve.