The black SUV tore through the winding mountain pass like a ghost made of shadow and steel. Roman Thorne sat behind the wheel, his knuckles white, his jaw locked in a position so tight it was a wonder his teeth didn't shatter. The dashboard clock glowed a cold, neon blue- the only light in a cabin that felt like the inside of a tomb.
Every second felt like a year. Every mile was a fresh insult. He could still see the grainy footage of Ryder shoving Skye into that car; he could still feel the phantom vibration of Sarah's frantic text about the intruder at Adam's door. They had gone for his son and his woman in the same breath. It was a coordinated strike- a move born of Ryder's desperation and Patricia's spite.
They had tried to take his world. Now, he was going to end theirs.
As the iron gates of the Vane hunting lodge appeared in the distance, Roman didn't slow down. He killed the headlights, letting the SUV roll on momentum through the thick treeline a hundred yards from the perimeter. He stepped out of the vehicle before it had even fully stopped.
He didn't look like a CEO. He looked like an executioner. He wore a dark tactical jacket, a suppressed sidearm holstered at his hip, and a combat knife sheathed at his chest. But his most lethal weapon was the white-hot, blinding rage that had settled into a cold, crystalline focus.
The lodge was a sprawling monstrosity of timber and stone, perched on the edge of the ridge. Two guards stood by the heavy front doors, smoking and checking their phones. They were lazy. They were comfortable. They thought they were safe in the middle of nowhere.
Roman detached himself from the shadows of the pines. He didn't run; he moved with the silent, predatory efficiency of a wolf in the tall grass.
The first guard didn't even hear him. Roman appeared behind him like a glitch in the air. One hand clamped over the man's mouth, the other driving a knee into the small of his back while his hand applied a surgical pressure to the carotid artery. The guard went limp in three seconds. Roman lowered him to the gravel without a sound.
The second guard turned, his eyes widening as he reached for the rifle slung over his shoulder. He was too slow. Roman was already there. He didn't use the gun. He used his fist, a brutal, short-range strike that caught the man square in the throat, crushing the windpipe. As the guard collapsed, gasping, Roman caught him by the collar and eased him into the shadows.
Two down. Ten to go.
He tapped his earpiece. "Tyson. Status at the estate."
"Roman, Marcus has the intruder in the basement. He's talking. It was a mercenary hired by Tish. Adam is back asleep. Sarah is guarding the door with a shotgun now. You're clear on our end. Give them hell."
"I intend to," Roman whispered.
He bypassed the front doors, knowing the electronic locks would alert the internal security hub. Instead, he scaled the stone trellis on the east wing, his fingers digging into the mortar with a strength fueled by pure adrenaline. He reached the second-floor balcony- the one he knew led to the master suites.
A third guard stepped out onto the balcony, checking the treeline with a flashlight. Roman was flattened against the stone pillar. As the light swept past him, he lunged. He grabbed the guard's head and twisted, the dull crack of bone swallowed by the wind. He caught the body before it hit the floorboards, sliding it behind a row of potted ferns.
Inside the lodge, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and the hum of a high-end vaccume. Roman moved through the hallway like a phantom. He was a man possessed, his mind a singular loop of Skye, Skye, Skye. The thought of her in this house, under the same roof as a degenerate like Ryder, made his blood feel like molten lead.
He reached the top of the grand staircase. Below, in the foyer, four men were playing cards at a round table. They were armed with submachine guns.
Roman reached into his tactical vest and pulled out a flash-bang. He didn't want to play fair. He wanted to win.
He dropped the canister.
The explosion of white light and deafening sound sent the guards sprawling. Before the ringing in their ears had even started, Roman was over the railing. He landed on his feet, his suppressed pistol spitting three rapid-fire rounds.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Three men slumped over the card table. The fourth, dazed and clutching his ears, tried to scramble for his weapon. Roman didn't shoot him. He walked over, grabbed the man by the hair, and slammed his face into the edge of the marble table. The guard went down, unconscious and broken.
Roman didn't stop to check pulses. He turned toward the hallway that led to the primary bedroom.
His heart was a hammer. He could feel Skye's presence- the echo of her voice, the lingering memory of her scent. He knew she was close.
Suddenly, a massive man- Ryder's personal head of security, burst out of a side room, a combat shotgun leveled at Roman's chest.
"Thorne! Move and I'll-"
Roman didn't move. He charged.
He lunged under the barrel of the shotgun, the blast whistling over his head and shattering a priceless Ming vase. Roman drove his shoulder into the man's gut, slamming him into the wall. He followed up with a series of brutal, rhythmic strikes- elbow to the temple, palm to the chin, a knee to the solar plexus.
The security lead was a large man, a professional fighter, but he wasn't fighting for anything. Roman was fighting for his family.
Roman grabbed the man's head and slammed it into the stone masonry of the fireplace once, twice, three times, until the man's grip on the shotgun loosened and his eyes rolled back. Roman let the body drop like a sack of stones.
He stood in the center of the hallway, his chest heaving, his dark hair disheveled, a smear of blood on his cheek that wasn't his. He looked like a god of war carved out of obsidian.
He checked his magazine. Three rounds left. He swapped it for a fresh one with a crisp, echoing clack.
He reached the heavy, reinforced oak door at the end of the hall. He could hear the faint, muffled sound of a voice behind it- Ryder's voice, arrogant and smooth.
"I told you, Songbird... I don't like losing what's mine."
Roman's vision went white at the edges. The possessive, protective roar in his soul reached a fever pitch. He didn't knock. He didn't use a pick.
He raised his foot and kicked the door right next to the electronic latch. The wood splintered, the frame groaning under the sheer force of his rage.
The door flew inward, hitting the wall with a thunderous crash.
Roman stepped into the room, his gun leveled, his eyes fixed on the man laying over Skye on the bed.
"Get away from her, Ryder," Roman said, his voice so cold it seemed to freeze the very air in the room. "Or the last thing you'll ever feel is the weight of the dirt on your casket."
He saw Skye on the bed, her silver dress torn, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a sudden, soaring relief. He saw the red marks on her wrists.
The Dragon had arrived. And the hunting lodge was about to become a slaughterhouse.