Chapter three: Shadows

Sienna crashed to the marble floor, Roman’s hand jerking her down as glass shattered somewhere in the guts of the estate. Her elbow smashed into the stone, a jolt of pain shooting up her arm, but it got lost in the rush tearing through her. Footsteps pounded closer—fast, hard, stomping from the east side of the house.

Too many boots, too much purpose. Her breath hitched, the silver key digging into her palm where she gripped it like a lifeline.

“Keep your head down,” Roman growled, half-sprawled over her, like she was some fragile thing he had to cover. She shoved him off, hard, scrambling into a crouch, her soaked jacket clinging like a second skin.

“I don’t need you playing shield,” she snapped, locking eyes with him. His cool mask was gone—those gray eyes burned dark now, wild and sharp. He didn’t waste breath arguing, just yanked a black pistol from his coat, the barrel catching the chandelier’s glow.

“You’re packing?” Her voice jumped, sharp with shock and suspicion. “Who the hell are you, really?”

“Guy who’s not dying here,” he said, popping the clip out and back in with a quick twist. “Get moving.”

She opened her mouth to bite back, but Vivienne’s heels clacked fast across the foyer, cutting her off.

“Panic room,” Vivienne said, her voice cracking at the edges, her face pale against that tight black dress. “Downstairs—go!”

Before Sienna could move, a shape burst through the archway—tall, hooded, ski mask swallowing everything but a flash of eyes. He swung a crowbar, smashing a vase into a spray of white shards. Sienna’s heart skipped, then she bolted for the stairs, Roman on her heels. Another figure loomed, blocking Vivienne—she let out a scream, raw and wrong, nothing like her usual ice.

“Vivienne!” Sienna yelled, twisting back, but Roman’s hand clamped her wrist, dragging her up the steps.

“She’s fine,” he said, his words clipped, tense.

“You won’t be if you freeze.”

The stairs twisted up, a spiral that messed with her head, her boots skidding on wet marble. Her brain was a mess—Who were these creeps? What did they want? The key? The money?

Dorian’s warning blazed in her mind: You’re not safe. Yeah, no crap, old man.

They hit the second floor, a long hall stretching into dark, doors everywhere like a damn trap.

Roman shoved her left, gun raised, eyes darting. “Study’s up here,” he said. “We can block it off.”

“You know this place way too good,” she panted, ducking past him as they ran. “What else you hiding?”

“Lots,” he said, blunt as a brick, kicking open a thick oak door. The room stank of leather and old cigars—Dorian’s ghost all over it. A big desk sat heavy in the middle, bookshelves climbing to the ceiling, a window showing the cliffs and the sea thrashing below.

Roman jammed a chair under the knob, his moves quick, like he’d done it before.

Sienna whirled on him, fists balled. “Spill it. Who’s coming? What’s this key do? And why you got a gun like it’s nothing?”

He stared back, water dripping from his hair, soaking his collar. “Don’t know who yet. Key’s a hunch—I need time to figure it. Gun?” His mouth twitched, almost a grin. “Your dad didn’t pay me to file papers.”

She stepped up, rage boiling over. “Pay you for what? Thug work? Covering his lies? You’re in that letter—‘neither is he.’ What’s your deal?”

He started to speak, but the door shook—hard. A yell muffled through the wood, then a thud, heavy, like a body ramming it. Her stomach flipped.

Roman lifted the gun, jerking his head toward the desk. “Behind it,” he said. She didn’t move.

“I’m not ducking,” she said, snatching a brass paperweight off the desk. It was solid, real. “They want me, they can try.”

“Stubborn’s a death wish,” he muttered, but his eyes flickered—maybe respect, maybe just tired.

The door busted open with a splintering crack, and two guys charged in—masks, dark gear, one flashing a knife that gleamed wicked. Roman fired, the shot loud enough to split her ears, and the first dropped, grabbing his leg. The other came at her, blade swinging. She smashed the paperweight into his jaw—heard the crunch, felt the give—and he reeled, but not before the knife nicked her arm, a hot sting that bled fast.

Roman tackled him, slamming him into the shelves. Books tumbled, pages flapping like dying birds. Sienna pressed her arm, blood slick between her fingers, her head ringing from the blast. The guy on the floor groaned, clawing for the door, but Roman pinned him, knee in his chest, gun at his head.

“Who sent you?” Roman snarled, pressing harder. The mask hid his face, but his eyes—wide, crazy—shot to Sienna.

“Ask her,” he croaked, voice scraped raw. “She’s got it.”

Her gut sank. She held up the key, silver shining, smeared with her blood. “This? What’s it for?”

He laughed, a wet, gurgling mess—then bit down. Foam bubbled at his mouth, his body jerking once, twice, gone. Roman cursed, jumping back, but it was done. Poison. His choice.

The room spun, her legs gave. The key slipped, clanging on the floor, and she would’ve followed if Roman hadn’t grabbed her, his hands firm, warm against her shaking mess.

“Breathe,” he said, low, insistent. “We’re still in it.”

Then—clapping. Slow, loud, from the hall. A guy stepped in, tall, lean, framed by the dying lights. No mask, just a sharp face, a scar curling under one eye like a hook. His grin was all teeth, mean as hell.

“Nice fight,” he said, voice slick with poison. “But you’re off the board, Sienna. That key? Ain’t yours yet.”