The sterile medical bay inside the Paros villa was less a place of healing and more a gilded cage. It was small, bathed in the unforgiving white glare of clinical lights, and smelled sharply of antiseptic and metal. I lay still, the heavy, constant pressure in my abdomen a reminder that the window for action was closing. The nurse, a nervous, competent woman with pale eyes, was adjusting the monitors at the end of the cot.
Then the door flew open, hitting the marble wall with a violent smack.
Damon strode in, his tailored suit rumpled, his breathing ragged. The broadcast of Vladimir’s supposed retreat—The Winter King retreats to the Tundra—had clearly reached him. He wasn’t gloating; he was enraged, fueled by a mixture of relief and consuming panic. He looked like a cornered animal who h
