Chapter 8 · Run Now or Burn

The burner buzzed against my hip, and Dominic Castellane was staring straight at me.

Ten steps to the counting room door. He stood at the top of the stairs, sleeves rolled to his elbows, black holster strapped tight over his ribs. Outside, rain hammered the shutters hard enough to vibrate through the floorboards.

*Blood hits the estate tonight. Run now or burn.*

I’d read the text once in the glasshouse. It was burning a hole through my ribs ever since.

"You're pale," he said.

"It's cold."

"It's seventy-one degrees in here." He took the stairs slow. One deliberate, heavy boot at a time, like he was stalking something that might bolt. "Mara."

Rule number one from my old life: *Never hand anyone the bullet they can shoot you with.* Right now, my gut was screaming at me to shove the phone behind the baseboard and lie.

Except the message didn't say *Mara, run.* It said *run now or burn.* Whoever sent it wanted me out before the place went up in smoke. They had a timeline. That meant someone in this house opened their mouth.

I dragged the burner out of my pocket and laid it flat across my palm.

"Someone slid this into my coat," I said. "I don't know who."

He stopped twelve inches out. He didn't snatch it. He just looked down at my open hand, then up at my face.

"May I?"

God, that was the most dangerous thing about him. He had two hundred pounds on me and a gun at his waist. He could’ve twisted my wrist and taken it. Instead, he asked, and my chest went tight like he'd laid a palm against my throat.

"Yeah."

His fingertips grazed my wrist—calloused, dry, blistering warm against my pulse. He checked the screen. His jaw didn't twitch, but the amber in his eyes went stone cold.

"When did this come in?"

"Two hours ago."

"And you’re giving it to me now."

"I could’ve bolted." I tipped my chin up, refusing to back into the wall. "The boathouse gate is locked, but whoever texted wanted me flushed out into the open. So here I am. Not running."

A trace of a smirk touched his mouth and died. "You expect me to believe you stayed for me?"

"I think you bought ninety days of my life, and you'd hate getting shortchanged."

"Careful, Mara."

"Or what?"

Dominic didn’t take the bait. He yanked his own phone from his pocket, hit speed dial, and shoved it to his ear. One ring. Then dead air, followed by a low, hollow hiss.

He crossed the hall, grabbed the landline off the console, and slammed it to his ear. Same dead hiss.

"Teo!" he roared down the gallery. "Teo, report!"

Nothing. Not even an echo.

On the security console by the stairs, the eight-camera monitor sparked. The north gate cut straight to gray static. Then the back gardens. Then the boathouse docks. One square after another went black, like a thread being snipped down the line.

"They cut the hardlines," I whispered.

"They cut everything." He was already moving. His hand shot out, caught my elbow, then instantly loosened his grip. "Mara. I have to move you. Can I—"

"Yes. Dominic, *yes.* Go!"

He pulled me down the corridor at a dead sprint. My bare feet slapped cold limestone. Behind us, the camera console let out a sharp, electrical crack and smoked.

The heavy door to the counting room stood cracked under a single green banker's lamp. Dominic shove me through, kicked the door nearly shut, and slammed a heavy brass key into my palm. It was slick with heat from his pocket.

"Deadbolt’s on the inside," he said, chest heaving once. "Throw it. Don't open it for anyone but me."

I looked down at the brass. Then right into his face.

"You're locking me in."

"I'm locking them out."

"That's the exact same thing." My voice went sharp. "I spent twelve days locked behind barred glass. I'm not sitting in a reinforced cage while people kick through your front door."

"Mara."

"No."

He closed the distance so fast the draft caught my hair. His chest hit mine, trapping me against the wood. I could smell the gun oil on his hands, the damp chill of rain clinging to his wool collar, and the pure heat coming off his skin. He didn't grab me. He just leaned in, towering, crowding every inch of air out of my lungs.

"The key is in your hand," he growled, voice rough and low against my mouth. "Not mine. You throw the bolt from the inside. You decide who steps through that threshold. You want to unlock it for me? You unlock it. You want to let this whole damn place burn around us? That's your call. I have never handed that switch to another living soul."

I stared at the pulse jumping at the base of his throat.

"That's a hell of a leash to give me, Dominic."

"It’s not a leash."

"Then what is it?"

The power died.

No warning buzz. The green lamp vanished, the humming air unit cut out, and pitch black slammed over my eyes like a suffocating blanket. My heart spiked straight into my throat.

In the dark, his hand locked over mine. Rough fingers threading between mine, squeezing hard enough to bruise. He didn't ask this time. I didn't pull away.

"Auxiliary generator," he breathed against my ear, his stubble scraping my cheek. "Ten seconds."

We stood welded together in the dark, breathing the same hot air. His thumb stroked the back of my knuckles once—hard, urgent, making sure I hadn't dropped.

"Who sent the message?" I whispered.

"Someone who wants me to think you set me up."

"Or someone trying to keep me breathing."

"Could be both." His lips brushed the shell of my ear. "Gia knew you went to the glasshouse at dusk."

My gut dropped. "Don't do that."

"I'm not accusing her."

"Your heart's beating out of your chest, Dominic. You're accusing her."

A low, ragged vibration rumbled in his chest—almost a laugh. Then the backup generator shuddered to life under the floor, and a blood-red emergency light clicked on above the lintel.

In the red glare, the sharp angles of his face looked like chipped slate. Tight. Strained. For the first time since he bought out my father's debt, he looked lethal—and terrified.

He dragged a snub-nosed revolver out of his waistband and forced the grip into my left hand.

"Safety's off," he said. "Don't wave it around. If you lift it, you pull the trigger."

"I've never shot anything in my life."

"Then don't shoot. Just level it at chest height and look like you want to watch them bleed." His head snapped toward the ceiling. "Listen."

Through the heavy stone, underneath the downpour, a guttural engine roared up the private drive. Not one. Three trucks, running dark.

"They're early," he muttered.

He swung around to breach the hall. My hand moved before my brain could stop it, fisting into the rough cotton of his shirt.

"Dominic. If you don't come back down this hall—"

"I'm coming back."

"You don't know that!"

"Yes, I do." He dragged my grip away from his shirt, his fingers biting into mine, pinning our knuckles against his sternum. "Because you're behind this door."

The front of the mansion blew.

A concussive, deafening crack tore through the house, rattling my teeth and blasting a shower of plaster dust off the ceiling. The red light swung wild on its cord. Down the gallery, ancient iron and oak groaned, splintered, and crashed to the marble.

Breaching charges. The main doors were gone.

Then came the heavy, syncopated stomp of tactical boots flooding the entryway.

Dominic slammed the door into the frame from the outside, leaving a two-inch gap between us. His gray eyes locked onto mine through the seam.

"Bolt it, Mara," he snarled. "Now!"

I looked down at the brass key. At the heavy iron throw.

And I didn't move.