The house fell into a tense silence, the only sound the distant echo of the crash. Tristan’s grip on his gun tightened as he moved toward the hallway, his sharp eyes scanning for movement. Rosalind wasn’t far behind, her breath shallow as she reached for the hidden blade strapped to her thigh.
She had learned never to feel safe—not after what had happened three years ago.
Tristan held up a hand, signaling for her to stay back, but she ignored him, stepping closer. He shot her a glare, but before he could say anything, another noise—softer this time—came from the direction of the study.
A deliberate sound. Someone was inside.
Tristan moved first, his steps deadly silent as he approached the door. With one swift motion, he pushed it open, gun raised.
The study was dimly lit, shadows str
