THE STERLING SECRETS

Chapter 4: Cold Blood

The heavy, metallic click of Julian’s gun clearing its safety echoed in the cramped space of the hidden gallery.

Click.

The sound was tiny, but in the suffocating silence it felt like a gunshot. My heart battered against my ribs, so violently I was certain he could hear it through the dark.

The vulnerable, guilt-ridden man I had glimpsed just seconds ago vanished. His face went blank, all emotion draining out like water. In its place was a cold, calculating predator. The billionaire was gone. The executioner had arrived.

"Julian," I whispered, my voice trembling as I reached out instinctively, my hand brushing the expensive fabric of his shirt. The equipment was warm. Too warm. "Please be careful."

"I told you to be quiet, Clara," he hissed, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that pinned me to the spot. The ice in them was behind, but underneath it, I saw something else—fear. For me. "Do not move from this room. If anyone comes through that door, and it isn't me, you run through the back corridor into my study and lock it. Do you understand?"

I nodded frantically, my throat too tight to speak.

He didn't wait another second. He turned, slipping through the gap behind the gold-framed mirror like smoke. The door clicked shut, and I was left alone in the dark with the defaced portraits of his dead brother. Dozens of slashed faces watching me.

I dropped to my knees, my legs giving out. Groping blindly on the cold floorboards, my fingers brushed against my phone. I snatched it up, keeping the flashlight off to avoid drawing attention, and pressed myself against the furthest wall. My back hit the canvas of a painting. I jerked away.

Outside, another sound shattered the silence.

It wasn't glass this time.

It was a low, muffled grunt, like someone had the air knocked out of them. Followed by the heavy, sickening thud of a body hitting the mahogany floor. A body that was far too heavy to be Julian's.

Then, silence.

A suffocating, terrifying silence that stretched on for what felt like hours. The only sound was the rain pouring through the broken window and my own ragged breathing.

My mind raced at a hundred miles an hour. Was Julian hurt? Was he bleeding out on the floor right now? Was the intruder heading this way, gun in hand?

The balance of my entire life was currently hanging by a thread inside this house. If Julian died, my mother's medical treatments stopped. The debt would come due. And I would be left alone in this Gothic prison to face whatever psycho had just broken into the estate.

Panic clawed up my throat. I couldn't just sit here and wait to die.

Driven by a sudden, desperate surge of adrenaline, I crawled toward the hidden mirror door on my hands and knees. The floor was cold beneath me. I pressed my ear against the cold glass.

Nothing.

Just the distant sound of rain and my own heartbeat.

Slowly, carefully, my shaking hands pushed the mirror open just an inch. The hinge didn't make a sound. A sliver of dim light from the library's desk lamp cut through the darkness like a knife.

I peered through the crack, my breath catching in my throat.

The main library was a disaster zone.

A massive stained-glass window near the upper balcony had been completely shattered. Jagged pieces of colored glass glittered on the floor like broken jewels. Rain was pouring through the opening, soaking the expensive Persian rugs below and creating dark, ugly stains.

But it was the scene in the center of the room that made me want to scream.

A man dressed in full black tactical gear was splayed across the floor, groaning in agony. Blood was pooling beneath him, dark and thick.

And standing over him was Julian.

His white shirt was splattered with a dark line of blood that ran down his sleeve. His hair was damp from the rain. And his face was entirely devoid of emotion. Blank. Empty.

He didn't look like a billionaire tech mogul. He didn't look like the man who bought me coffee every night.

He looked like an executioner.

Julian stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He placed the heavy heel of his dress shoe directly onto the intruder's wounded shoulder and pressed down.

The man shrieked, a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the vaulted ceilings and made my stomach turn.

"Who sent you?" Julian asked, his voice chillingly conversational. Like he was asking about the weather. He raised the handgun, pointing it directly between the man's eyes. His hand didn't shake. Not even a little. "Give me a name, and I might let the ambulance reach you before you bleed out."

"Go to hell, Sterling," the man spat, coughing up blood onto the polished floorboards.

Julian didn't hesitate. His expression didn't change. He shifted his grip on the weapon and brought the butt of the gun down hard against the man's jaw.

A sickening crack filled the room.

The intruder went entirely limp, knocked unconscious. The sound of his head hitting the floor was dull.

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle the sound, but it was too late. The slight intake of breath was enough.

Julian's head snapped directly toward the hidden mirror. His gray eyes narrowed, sharp and predatory, tracking the movement of the door. Water dripped from his hair onto his face.

He began walking toward my hiding spot. Each step was slow. Measured. His bloody shoes left faint, terrible prints on the soaked Persian rug.

He stopped right in front of the mirror. I could see my own terrified reflection in his eyes.

"I thought I told you to stay put, Clara," he said, his voice echoing in the dark aisle. Low. Dangerous. Disappointed.

The mirror was the only thing between us.