The nursery doors didn't just open; they surrendered under the weight of Kieran's boot.
I was still wrapped in Kieran's jacket, the scent of him acting as the only thing keeping me from shattering into a million pieces. His arm was a band of iron around my waist, pulling me so flush against his side that I could feel the thrum of his heart.
"Don't move," a voice hissed from the shadows.
It wasn't a soldier. It was a woman's voice—thin, brittle, and drowning in desperation.
Magda.
She was sitting in the white velvet rocking chair. In her arms, she held a bundle of pink blankets. My breath hitched, a sob catching in my throat so hard it hurt.
Hanalei.
Magda was holding her. In her right hand, she gripped a small, silver-plated pistol, the barrel pressed against the side of the crib.
"Stay back, Kieran," Magda spat, her eyes wild and bloodshot. "I'll do it. I swear to God, I'll take this brat with me before I let you take this house."
