Twisted Throne

Lyra

"They're hunting Cassian." The words barely leave my lips before my heartbeat drowns out everything else. For one suspended moment, I can't breathe. I can't think. All I can do is stare.

The large display mounted against the wall is divided neatly into two live feeds. On the left, Cassian sits cross-legged on the nursery floor, completely engrossed in the little tower he's building from brightly colored wooden blocks.

A sudden, fierce ache twists in my chest. It is an irrational, maternal urge so sharp it leaves me breathless-a desperate desire to reach through the monitor, scoop him up into my arms, and shield his eyes from the darkness heading his way.

He is too young to understand that his world has shifted. Unbothered. Unafraid.

My gaze drifts to the right side of the display. The four masked men continue through the corridor with terrifying precision. Each measured step brings them closer to the nursery. Closer to Cassian.

"Dante. . ." My voice comes out thinner than I intend.

He doesn't answer. He touches the sleek, flesh-colored earpiece tucked behind his right ear, his eyes locked on the moving targets.

"Bravo, flank from the service elevator," Dante murmurs, his voice a low, lethal whisper. "Echo, choke point at the threshold. You have six seconds." A pause. "No noise."

Another pause. "No breach."

On the screen, the masked men stop outside the final security door. One swipes a key card.

The lock clicks. My throat tightens painfully.

On the left side of the screen, Cassian giggles as another tower of wooden blocks collapses into a colorful heap. On the right, the door swings open.

"Do something," I plead, the whisper escaping before I can stop it.

Dante doesn't look at me, but his fingers curl tightly against the edge of the mahogany desk.

The four men step into the final corridor. The nursery door is right there, a pristine white barrier at the end of the hall. One of the masked men lifts his hand toward the handle.

"Now," Dante whispers into his earpiece.

Six of Dante's security guards materialize from the shadows of the intersecting hallway, weapons already drawn.

The corridor erupts.

The violence is fast, clinical, and devastating. A wrist is shattered. A knife flashes, catching one guard across the forearm. He doesn't even slow. He drives his weight forward, pinning the attacker against the wall.

Within three breathless seconds, three of the intruders are slammed facedown onto the polished floor, their weapons kicked away.

The leader of the cell struggles violently, his mask catching on the corner of a security camera bracket during the scuffle. The fabric tears, ripping completely off his face.

My heart stops.

The screen displays his face in sharp, high-definition focus.

Hold up! That's Gregory.

My breath leaves me in a ragged gasp.

Gregory-the man who had stood guard outside my father's private study for a decade. The man who had politely held doors open for me, who had escorted me to my college graduation, who had smiled and asked about my day.

Those men had spent years protecting my family. Tonight, they were sent to slaughter a baby. My stomach violently turns, a wave of profound, sickening guilt washing over me.

On the left side of the display, Cassian doesn't even look toward the door. He's too busy trying to balance a blue block on top of his little tower, blissfully safe.

Slowly, I turn to Dante. He is standing exactly where he was, but the mask of the cold, unfeeling monster has slipped.

His shoulders drop. A shaky, uneven breath escapes his lips, his chest rising and falling as if he had just emerged from deep water.

His hand remains flat on the desk, trembling just enough for me to see it, before he slowly tightens it into a fist to hide the tremor.

The terrifying, obsessive warlord is gone, replaced for a single, fleeting second by a father who had just stared into the abyss of losing his child-and barely won.

A thousand questions crash through my mind, colliding with one another until only one survives.

I stare at him, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Why? Why would you protect him like that?"

For a long moment, Dante says nothing. His green eyes drift back to the display, softening as they watch Cassian happily rebuild the little tower that keeps refusing to stand.

Then he finally looks at me.

"Because. . . " There's a quiet beat, the word heavy between us. "He's ours."