The world narrowed to the scent of gunpowder, splintered oak, and the frantic thunder of my own heart. From my vantage point, crouched behind the massive, now very scarred, desk, I could see Lysander’s profile. A trickle of blood traced a path from his temple to his jaw, a stark crimson against the pallor of his skin. His eyes, however, were not pale. They were the color of a storm-lashed sea, focused with lethal intent on the mercenary whose gun was still trained on us.
The shot had been too close. Splinters of his precious, probably-antique desk now lodged in the air where my head had been seconds before. Lysander’s body was a shield, his arm braced against the wood, every muscle coiled.
“The alarm,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper meant only for me. His gaze flickered to the b
