Chapter 8 - Breach in the East Wing
The corridor of the east wing was cast in deep shadow, the overhead crystal chandeliers flickering erratically as if the power grid had been deliberately compromised. I sprinted behind Ronan, the heels of my black shoes clicking sharply against the polished hardwood floors. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The alarm signal indicated a forced entry at the perimeter balcony doors directly adjoining the Mistress's sitting room.
Ronan moved with lethal speed, his hand slipping beneath his dark jacket to draw a heavy, dark-barreled sidearm with practiced ease. He didn't look back to check if I was keeping up; he trusted me to stay close, or perhaps he simply didn't have the luxury of hesitation. As we burst through the double doors into the dimly lit sitting room, the cold night air rushed in through shattered French glass.
The Elderly Mistress was sitting upright in her high-backed armchair, her hands gripping the armrests tightly, her face pale but composed. Standing near the shattered balcony threshold was a tall figure in a dark hoodie, frantically grabbing a stack of leather-bound journals from the antique writing desk.
"Drop it," Ronan's voice cut through the room like a whip, absolute and freezing.
The intruder spun around, a silver letter opener gripped tightly in his hand as a makeshift weapon. It was one of the estate footmen—a quiet, unassuming kid named Leo who had only been on payroll for three weeks. Panic distorted his young face as he realized he was trapped between Ronan's leveled weapon and the exit.
"Don't shoot!" Leo choked out, his hands trembling violently as he dropped the journals onto the Persian rug. "I was just looking for—Marcus said—"
"Marcus is locked in the cellar," Ronan said, stepping forward with measured, terrifying calm, his boots crunching on broken glass. "And you're going to tell me every single name on the manifest before I decide whether to hand you over to the authorities or deal with you myself."
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I rushed past Ronan without thinking, dropping to my knees beside the Elderly Mistress to check her pulse and ensure she hadn't been physically harmed. Her hands were ice cold, but she squeezed my fingers tightly, signaling with a quick, sharp gesture that the journals on the floor were what Marcus had been desperately trying to destroy.
Ronan's shadow fell over us as he kept his weapon trained on the cowering footman. "Stay here, Sadie," he muttered, his tone shifting to something fiercely protective. "He's not going anywhere."
