Page 48 of Stealing Cinder

She holds the revolver with both hands, barrel aimed at the back of my skull. The muzzle trembles. She has never fired a weapon under pressure.

Good to know.

"You always acted like you were too good for us. Let him go, Samuel."

“You should have stayed in Paris, Francesca." I tighten my grip on Edgar's throat. His wheezing grows thinner. "Let him go? Pull that trigger and find out. I'll snap his neck before I hit the floor.”

The click of the hammer locking into full cock punches through the silence. A small, mechanical sound that grates over the nerve endings and calls death closer.

My muscles coil. My grip tightens on Edgar's throat. I count the seconds by the thud of my own pulse.

A gun goes off.

The concussion fills the living room and the echo slams against the glass walls. My ears ring. Blood mists the air behind me.

But the bullet didn't come from Francesca.

I spin, my arm still locked around Edgar's throat, and find the source.

Cinder stands in the doorway of the corridor. She grips her father's Beretta in both hands. Her arms are extended, locked at the elbows. Her light blue eyes burn white in the dim light, the silver sheen glowing with a fury that stops my breath.

Francesca is on the floor. The revolver has skidded across the concrete, far from her reach. Blood darkens the front of her blouse.

Cinder's hands shake. Her gaze stays pinned on the dead woman who stole her father, her mother, her childhood, her inheritance, and her peace.

“It’s done,” she whispers and the weight of those two words will scar my soul forever.

I finish Edgar. One sharp rotation of my forearm and let him drop to the floor.

Oliver, Bastian, and Valerian pour through the side entrance. Weapons sweep the room, clear the corners. Oliver checks the corridor. Bastian kneels beside Edgar, confirms the obvious, and straightens. Valerian takes Francesca's revolver from the floor, ejects the cylinder, and pockets the rounds.

I cross the room in four strides and reach Cinder.

I ease the Beretta from her fingers. Her grip is locked so tight the tendons in her hands stand white against her skin. I pry each finger loose, one by one, and tuck the gun into my waistband.

Her entire body vibrates against mine when I pull her to my chest. I wrap my arms around her and press my mouth to the top of her head. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling at the fabric. The sound that tears from her throat is not a scream or a sob. Five months of grief and rage and survival leaving her body in a single, shattered exhale.

Behind us, my friends move with quiet efficiency. Bodies shift across the concrete. Low voices coordinate their final removal. Violence is routine for these men, the cleanup as practiced as the killing.

I tilt Cinder’s face up. Tears streak her cheeks. Her lips tremble and her pupils are blown wide from the adrenaline flooding her system.

"You're okay. You're okay, princess." I brush the tears from her face with my thumbs. "Why did you do that? You never should have dirtied your soul for me."

"I did it for you." Her voice cracks. Her fingers curl against the fabric of my shirt, pressing into the muscle beneath. "For me. And for our baby."

"That was for me to do, Cinder. I would have handled it."

She lifts her chin. Those pale blue eyes, still wet, still shaking, lock onto mine with a steadiness that guts me.

"Not at the expense of dying."

My throat closes. I pull her back against my chest and hold her so tight the air squeezes from between our bodies. The warmth of her seeps into every cold place I carry, filling the void over my heart with a heat that no amount of ink or violence or money ever could.

She saved me. I spent all night orchestrating a trap to keep her safe, and she walked in and saved me.

Pride swells alongside a grief I will carry forever. I wanted to keep her hands clean, to spare her the weight of pulling a trigger on another life. That innocence is gone now, traded for mine, and the cost will haunt me long after this moment fades away.

But she chose it. She chose me. And the woman in my arms is my equal in every way that counts.