Chapter 17 · Death in the Ceiling

Boots hit the ceiling tile over my head. My palm slammed flat against Julian's chest before the dust even settled.

"Don't," I hissed.

He didn't move. Six years of royal blood, and the Alpha of Ironcrest went dead still under my hand. Like an animal that had taken too many beatings to bother flinching.

That scared me worse than the footsteps.

They weren't out in the hallway. They were inside the crawlspace—the two-foot crawl run right between my plaster ceiling and the nursery floor upstairs. Moving slow. Testing every joist before putting weight down.

Then came the smell.

Gun oil dripping through the seams. Wet wool. That sour copper stink silver rounds sweat when they're frozen.

"Four," Julian breathed. His mouth brushed right against my ear, his stubble scraping my temple. Hot, ragged breath.

"Five," I whispered back, counting the tiny creaks. "One's dragging something in the west duct. Metal. Not a rifle barrel."

"Charges."

"Or a torch."

"Don't say torch, Nora."

Above us, steel scraped against steel. A long, lazy screech that made every hair on the back of my neck stand straight up.

Maya. Caleb.

I didn't need to see them to feel them.