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I swallow hard, my jaw locking and my rage flaring so hot that I can barely contain it. I nod. “He sent them,” I say, my voice like broken glass. “Your father tried to steal you.”

Her breath hitches, and that’s when she breaks.

The scream that tears from her throat rips through the sealed panic room like a bomb detonating inside her chest. She thrashes, shoving herself away from me and stumbling to her feet, her arms flailing as she tries to find something, anything, to destroy.

She grabs a nearby tray and hurls it at the wall, the metal crashing and sparks flying.

She claws at her own skin like she’s trying to tear the rage out of her body.

I move closer, my own body screaming in pain, but none of it matters. Watching her unravel guts me more than any blade ever could. She’s not just breaking. She’s shattering, and all I want is to take every shard and hold them together for her.

“Lyra,” I whisper, my voice raw. She doesn’t hear me. She punches the wall, her fists splitting open, blood streaking down her fingers.

“WHY?! Why would he—”

I can’t answer. Because I don’t have any words that will take away the betrayal poisoning her veins. All I have are my arms. My body. My vow.

I pull her to me, locking my arms around her even as she fights me at first, her fists pounding weakly against my chest and her sobs tearing from her throat in violent waves.

She struggles, but I don’t let go. I tighten my grip, wrapping myself around her like a fortress.

Her tears soak my shirt, and her nails dig into my skin, drawing blood, but I don’t care.

I’ll bleed for her a thousand times over.

I hold her tighter, whispering into her hair as her cries start to slow, her body trembling violently in my arms. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

I’ve never wanted to protect anyone like this.

Never in my life. Not in warzones, not in black ops, not in all the years I’ve stared death in the face.

I’ve never felt this savage and desperate need to shelter someone from a world hellbent on destroying them.

She’s under my skin, in my bloodstream, and a part of me I can’t separate from anymore. She’s everything.

And if I lose her, I lose myself.

I rock her gently, pressing my lips to her temple, my voice hoarse but steady. “I’ve got you. I’ll always have you. No one’s taking you from me. Not now. Not ever.”

XXX

My blood is still pounding like war drums inside my skull. Lyra’s sobs have quieted, her body slack in my arms as exhaustion drags her under. Her breathing is uneven, but steady enough. She’ll sleep for a while, which is good. She needs the peace.

I, on the other hand, am not ready for peace.

I gently ease her back onto the padded bench and brush a blood-matted strand of hair from her face, my thumb lingering against her cheek.

The sight of her bruised skin, the dried blood on her temple, and the scratches on her knuckles…

every mark burns itself into my memory like branding irons.

A record of what they tried to do to her. What her father tried to do.

And suddenly, I know exactly what must be done.

I rise slowly. My entire body aches. The graze on my shoulder is still leaking, and my ribs are bruised, but I barely register the pain. The pressure in my chest is heavier than any wound.

I leave her behind the locked steel of the panic room and step into the dim corridor where the two mercenaries still lie. Their blood stains the marble in wide, dark pools, and the copper stench hangs thick in the air. Their weapons are scattered, still loaded, but useless now.

I stand over the second man—the one who dared to lay hands on her, the one who dragged her like she was property.

Evander sent him. Evander gave the order.

But I’m going to send a message back.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. Years, really. I thought I left this kind of brutality behind when I walked away from black-ops. From the parts of my past that most men don’t live long enough to outrun. But right now, I don’t feel an ounce of hesitation. Not when it’s for her.

Because for Lyra, I would rip the world apart.

I crouch beside the man’s body, my gloves slick against the coagulating blood as I pull my tactical blade free from its sheath again. The familiar weight on my palm steadies me, and the handle fits into my grip like an old friend.

“Time to deliver your final message,” I whisper to the corpse.

The blade slices through the dead man’s neck with a wet sound that echoes through the stone hallway.

It’s not quick, and it’s not clean, which I consider embarrassing for myself.

It’s been too long since I’ve done this.

The cartilage snaps, and the tendons stretch and resist before giving way, until finally, his head comes free in my hands.

His lifeless face stares back at me, blood dripping in thick streams from the severed stump and pooling beneath my boots.

I stare into those vacant eyes for a moment, breathing hard and letting my pulse slow.

There is no regret. Only purpose.

I wrap the head carefully inside the heavy-duty tactical bag I carried in with me, reinforced and waterproof. The blood seeps into the fabric, but it doesn’t matter. This isn’t about presentation. It’s about the message.

As I cinch the bag shut, my mind flashes back to old missions. To the dark places in the world where this kind of message is currency. Where heads delivered in bags speak louder than any encrypted threat or hollow warning.

It’s been years since I’ve sent a message like this. But right now, it feels like slipping back into the only language Evander truly understands.

I carry the package outside, walking through the estate grounds as dawn breaks fully over the horizon. The birds have returned, their delicate songs a bitter contrast to the violence that still lingers in the air like smoke.

The marble is stained with the remains of his men.

The estate that once stood as Evander’s monument to control now breathes like something wounded, bleeding beneath my feet.

I approach the armored vehicle Noah secured for us days ago, a contingency plan we knew we might need. The interior is already prepped for secure delivery.

Inside, I secure the bag, locking it into a reinforced crate, the kind used for transporting high-value assets. Then, I attach one final piece—a note. Short. Direct. No theatrics. Just seven words, written in my own handwriting, so Evander knows exactly who sent it.

You sent two. I returned one. The other can rot here.

I secure the crate, attach the GPS routing that Noah pulled from hacking into Evander’s private courier network, and send the encrypted dispatch through the system. The moment I hit send, the vehicle’s system takes over, remote piloted and untraceable.

It’s already en route.

Evander will open the crate in a few hours.

He’ll see the bag.

He’ll open it.

He’ll see what’s left of his men.

He’ll understand exactly how close he came tonight. And exactly what will happen if he ever tries again.

I pull my phone from my pocket and open the secondary secure line. The one Evander’s team still monitors.

This time, there’s no encryption. No hiding.

I record the message with my voice low and almost threatening, my rage sharpened into ice. “If you come for her again, I won’t just take your empire. I’ll return her to you in a coffin. After I burn everything you’ve ever built.”

Then, I send it.

No reply comes.

The birds keep singing as the sun rises, casting long shadows across the bloodstained marble. Behind me, the estate smolders, not from fire, but from war declared.

And this time, there will be no survivors.