Page 8 of Goldrage
“Your wound?—”
Lorenzo waves dismissively, though I catch the wince he tries to hide. “Roby did his best, but the kid’s still perfecting his technique.” His grin is pure, adorable Lorenzo, even through the pain. “He’s veryproud of his stitching, so don’t tell him it looks like shit.”
The mention of little Roby playing doctor makes my chest tight, but before I can respond, Lady Harrow moves.
In one fluid motion, she reaches behind her desk and pulls out a small silver pistol. The barrel sweeps between Lorenzo and Eleanora like she can’t decide which threat to eliminate first.
“Put it down,” Lorenzo says, and all the warmth drains from his voice. What remains is ice-cold authority that makes me shiver. “My future wife AND my cousin? Don’t mess with what’s mine.” His eyes narrow to slits. “You’re outnumbered. The smart move is to let us take Aurelia.” He glances at me, then back at Lady Harrow. “Though we should kill her, yes?”
The question hangs in the air demanding an answer. Part of me—a dark, hungry part that’s been growing stronger since I started my revenge—wants to say yes. I want Lorenzo to put a bullet in her brain and end this nightmare once and for all.
But before anyone can make that decision, heavy footsteps thunder down the hallway. Five more guards flood into the room, guns drawn and pointing at us.
The room becomes a maze of crossed gun barrels and held breath. Everyone has a target, everyone has a finger on a trigger, and everyone knows that one wrong move will turn this into a bloodbath.
“Ma’am?” one of the guards asks, his weapon aimed at Lorenzo’s head. “Do you want us to fire?”
Lady Harrow’s smile returns but it’s thin andbarely hides her fear. “No. These three have caused me quite a bit of trouble. When I deal with them, it won’t be quick. I prefer them to suffer.”
Bullshit. She knows that if she gives the order to shoot, she’ll die too. Eleanora’s gun is pointed right at her and, considering everything I just saw her do, I think my friend will have perfect aim.
“We’re leaving,” Eleanora announces. “Back away from the door.”
The guards glance at Lady Harrow, who nods. The men step out of the way.
Slowly, carefully, we begin to move. Lorenzo supports me with one arm while keeping his other hand pressed to his bleeding side. Eleanora walks backward, her gun trained on Lady Harrow’s heart. The guards shift and adjust, keeping us in their sights, but no one fires.
It’s a deadly dance where one misstep means death for everyone.
“Julian will kill you all for this,” Lady Harrow says as we reach the doorway. Her voice follows us like a curse. “My son doesn’t forgive. He doesn’t forget. And he certainly doesn’t let anyone take what belongs to the Harrow family.”
We don’t hesitate and flee down the hallway to the foyer.
The elevator dings softly as we reach it, an absurdly normal sound in the middle of this standoff. Lorenzo jabs the call button while Eleanora keeps her weapon pointed at some guards lingering several feet away, watching us.
“You can tell Julian,” Eleanora calls out to LadyHarrow, who is down the hallway, “that he’s welcome to try.”
The elevator doors slide open. We step inside, still facing the guards, still holding our breath. Only when the doors close completely do we allow ourselves to exhale.
I slump against Eleanora, my legs finally giving out. The adrenaline that’s been keeping me upright crashes, leaving me hollow and shaking.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words inadequate for what they’ve just done. “Both of you. I don’t know how?—”
“Shhh,” she says and wraps her arms around me for support.
“How did you know where I was?” I ask. Because that’s the question that’s been nagging at me since she walked through Lady Harrow’s door like some kind of avenging angel.
Eleanora exchanges a meaningful look with Lorenzo—the kind of look that passes entire conversations in a single glance. When she turns back to me, her expression is carefully neutral. “Let’s just say I have resources. We’ll talk more once you’re safe.”
Resources. What kind of resources does a fashion-obsessed socialite have that would lead her to Lady Harrow’s bedroom at exactly the right moment?
I’m supported between my cousin and my best friend, their warmth the only thing keeping me upright. But even through my gratitude and relief, I can’t ignore the way Lorenzo keeps glancing at Eleanora with something dangerously close to adoration in his eyes. Or theway Eleanora avoids meeting his gaze, her jaw set in determined irritation.
A sinking feeling settles in my stomach, heavier than the pain from my wounds.
Eleanora knew about the engagement. She’s known all along, and she lied to my face about it.
But why?
