Sharon took a deep, steadying breath, wiping gore-smeared hands on her ruined shirt as she descended the grand staircase.
The mansion reeked of fresh slaughter—coppery blood and ruptured bowels—but she couldn't stop now. Answers waited downstairs, maybe in the study. Her grip tightened on the sticky hammer, pulse still thundering from the bedroom massacre.
Halfway down, a shadow lunged—a burly assailant in tactical gear, eyes feral under his hood. He tackled her like a freight train, massive arms slamming her spine-first onto the dining table.
Mahogany splintered with a deafening crack, shards exploding outward as they crashed through in a tangle of limbs and shattered crystal. Pain lanced through her ribs, breath exploding from her lungs, but survival instinct kicked in hard.
