Page 54 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

S erafina

The air in the gun cellar is unnaturally cold, like the room has never been warmed by a breath.

Racks line every wall, gleaming with polished walnut stocks and matte black steel.

Glass cases house pistols, revolvers, shotguns, and rifles—everything from what appears to be antique collectibles to brutal military-grade guns.

Beneath the cabinets is a glass drawer lined with what looks like silencers, triggers, extra barrels, and boxes of bullets.

The smell is eerie—gun oil, cold metal, and imminent death. How can a room feel sacred and violent at the same time?

Near the far wall, sleek, long rifles rest in vertical racks, their barrels slender and cold. Above them, antique revolvers hang in a neat row. They’re ornate—beautiful, even—with curved wooden handles polished to a soft sheen.

On the opposite wall hang more compact, angular firearms—more utilitarian but still lovingly cared for. I don’t feel like I’m standing in a room designed single-mindedly for defense purposes. I feel like I’m standing in a gallery—an art space. The craftsmanship on show in here is mind-blowing.

My mind claws back to Andreas’ words. I’m to pick a gun that isn’t too heavy and one I might actually be able to fire if I need to.

My gaze takes in the smaller pistols—the ones I can more comfortably hold in one hand.

They’re small, discreet and look easy-ish to handle.

But is easy-to-handle going to give these assholes what they deserve?

A burning rage has been circling my insides and it’s now starting to climb. Fury floods my bloodstream, tightening my muscles and stiffening my bones.

Who do these cretins think they are threatening my husband and my home?

They’ve vastly underestimated the power of devotion. I will do anything for my husband and he’ll do the same for me. If just one of their bullets flies when he gets here, I will mow them to the ground.

Yes, they’ve underestimated our love. But more than that, they’ve underestimated me .

I walk past the small, compact handguns and lift down the biggest, meanest firearm I can find. I look at the wall plaque behind it. An M27. That means nothing to me but I’m sure it will do the job .

I don’t stay down here like Andreas asked me to. I have no intention of staying in a damn cellar when there are vultures circling my home.

The house feels large as I tiptoe barefoot back through the entrance hall, shadows falling on the hardwood floors with the late afternoon light.

The weight in my hands is reassuringly monstrous.

In a battle against sniper rifles I don’t doubt its tenacity.

The steel is heavy but I don’t let it hold me down.

I allow the adrenalin to lift my arms and keep them aloft with anticipation.

I stop by the front door, my heart hammering, my knuckles white on the grip of the gun.

I’m no longer shaking. I’m no longer fearful.

I’m on the attack. I’m not letting anyone dictate the state or survival of my marriage.

Peeking through the spyhole, the front of the house is quiet.

The men in camo gear are still laying low, waiting for their prey. Then I hear it.

Crunching gravel and the low hum of an engine I know as well as his voice. I hear a car door close and I unbolt the locks.

I pull the front door in toward me and step out of the house. My husband is striding up the steps, a determined look in his eye. I want to drop the machine gun and run to him but there’s a sinister pulse in the air. I dare not move until my husband is inside and behind closed doors.

Then it starts.

The crack of gunfire shatters the humid atmosphere.

Sparks burst from the outer edges of the property, the pop, pop sound I know only too well raining down on our home.

Andreas raises his arms to push me back inside, then his eyes widen as his gait falters.

He trips on the last step and tumbles toward me.

The weight of the gun swings to my side as my husband falls into my body, knocking me to the ground.

Gunfire closes in and I clutch his shoulders, trying to see his face.

His chest is flattening me so hard I can’t take a breath.

My hands pat him all over, trying get him to move, trying to make sure he’s alright, searching for any evidence of injury.

Heavy footsteps pound across the porch and thick hands take hold of Andreas’ arms. As he’s moved slightly, I heave in a breath and scream. “Get off him! Get off him now!”

Whoever’s moving my husband doesn’t listen to a word and manages to pull Andreas onto his back.

I blink up with glassy eyes. Arrow is dragging Andreas backward into the house.

I flip onto all fours and my gaze drops to Andreas’ chest. Blood is pouring out of it.

So much blood. I crawl desperately toward him.

“Andreas…”

His eyes flicker and his lips move. “I love you.”

“Leave it Sera,” Arrow pants, nodding to the gun I’d been carrying, as he drags Andreas further into the house. But it’s too late. I’m already reaching for it.

I stand and heave it into my arms. Resting the body on my left palm I raise it up and find my target—the border. My right finger rests on the trigger. A second swells and blooms as I pause, searching for movement. When it comes, I pull back the trigger .

My husband’s face flashes across my lids. His shuttered gaze, his faded voice, his shallow breaths. If he dies, I may as well die too.

The air rips as I swing the barrel from left to right. “Brrrrrrt. Brrrrrrt. Brrrrrrt.”

Shouts rise up from the hedges.

Bodies stand then fall.

I walk out onto the porch, the gun primed to fire at anything that dares to move.

Something hovers to the right of the house. I swing the barrel toward it. “Brrrrrt. Brrrrrrt.”

“Sera!”

Arrow’s voice alerts me to some hardware sailing across the porch and hitting my bare foot.

More ammo. I fire another line of bullets then bend to grab the cases.

I don’t know how to reload a gun but I shove the bullets into the pocket of my sweater anyway, then I walk around the side of the house.

Two men are running in the opposite direction to the edge of the lawns.

Pure hatred lifts the gun and I fire another round of bullets, knocking them both to the ground. Even though they’re dead, I scream at them.

“Get the HELL off my property!”

I make my way round the entire perimeter, arriving back at the front door just as another car pulls up and Benito jumps out.

“Let me take that,” he says in a measured tone. “Go to him. He needs you.”

I toss the machine gun to Benito and bolt into the house.

Arrow has somehow managed to lift Andreas onto one of sofas and is surrounded by needles, bandages and steel medical utensils.

Andreas has a roll of bandage stuffed in his mouth and he’s screaming into it.

My gaze drops to his chest—I can’t really see what Arrow is working on through all the blood. So much blood.

I walk across the floor, my bare feet sticking to the bloodied boards, and stop a few feet away from my husband. Arrow has an enormous pair of tweezers and he’s digging them into my husband’s chest. Andreas screams again, tears streaming down his face.

“This thing is fucking deep,” Arrow growls.

“What can I do?” I ask.

Arrow doesn’t look up. “You can clean up his hand so it doesn’t get infected.”

I glance at Andreas’ right hand and it’s a mess. What on earth did he punch? A combine harvester?

I hurry to the kitchen, fill a bowl with warm water and grab some clean cloths. I return to the living room and lower to my knees.

Andreas is staring at the ceiling, his eyes wide in pain. Arrow digs in again and Andreas muffles another scream in the bandage.

I begin to clean his busted hand as carefully as I can.

“This is worst I’ve ever seen,” Arrow mumbles. “It missed this artery by just a couple inches.”

Relief, fear and anger slam into me at force as I realize I almost lost him. I might still lose him.

“Is he going to be okay?”

“If I can get this fucker out,” Arrow says, wincing. Then he sucks in a breath and digs one more time. “Got the bastard.”

He pulls out a large, bloodied brass bullet and drops it onto the glass coffee table.

Andreas spits out the bandage and roars triumphantly.

“Don’t you dare sit up,” Arrow warns. “You’re basically a blood faucet right now. I need to stitch you up.”

Andreas’ head falls to the side and a look of sheer bliss passes over it. “Sera,” he whispers.

I rest my palm on his cheek. “Shh. Don’t talk. There’ll be plenty of time for talking later.”

Seconds later, Benito strides into the room, my machine gun dangling from one hand, his matte black handgun from the other. “You okay?”

Despite them being brothers, there’s still an edginess to their relationship. They’ve been apart for so long, trust has yet to fully return.

Andreas groans. “Yeah. I’ll live.”

“You won’t if you keep moving,” Arrow bites out.

“I need a fucking drink.” Benito leaves us with that little insight and heads to the kitchen.

I continue to clean up Andreas’ hand. When I pass over the broken bones, he doesn’t even flinch.

Arrow threads a needle and gets to work wiping away blood and stitching the folds of skin together. All the while, Andreas’ gaze rests hotly on the side of my face.

When Arrow has finished stitching up Andreas’ chest and has cleared away all the tools and bandages, he stands over Andreas. “I’ve called the doctor and he’s bringing some morphine.”

Andreas grunts. “I don’t need morphine.”

“You can’t fool me, A. I know how much pain you’re in. Besides, morphine might stop you from moving.” His brows hike up, challenging Andreas to object.

I rest a hand on Andreas’ arm and smile up at Arrow. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t move.”

“Benito’s men are on their way. They’ll move all the bodies,” Arrow says to us both.

I lift my gaze. “How many?”

“Twelve.”

I nod. I killed at least six of them.

Nausea threatens to climb up my throat for the second time today. I’m a killer. A murderer. I have blood on my hands.

I want to make the world a better place for the kind of men that I just killed. Ones who probably found themselves as young boys, on the streets, with no sense of direction, through no fault of their own.

Andreas notices the sudden change in my demeanor.

His voice is rough. “It was self-defense, Sera. They would have killed you if you hadn’t shot them first.”

I force a smile. “I know.”

Then I look into my husband’s eyes, see a world of love within them, and a sober thought occurs to me. “I would do it all again.”