Christophe Lupei knew what it felt like to be helpless.

The feeling threaded through his every thought when he’d been back at the orphanage and under the care of a tyrant. It swam in his veins like a dark promise he couldn’t ignore. But he’d fought those demons. Overcame them.

He hadn’t felt this kind of weakness again … until now.

How quickly he was snapped back to the past when his back was against the wall, and he had to fight his way out. No, he needed to fight his way out because someone was relying on him.

Someone who meant the world to him.

As he stood there, the barrel of his rifle pointed at the man on his knees before him, he focused on one thing—one person.

Aidra.

Aidra.

Aidra.

Her name whispered over and over inside his head, maddening him, goading him to finish this at his own speed instead of waiting as was his protocol.

Christophe had never cared for politics and the dramas it involved. The politician begging for his life meant nothing to him, nor did he give a shit what the man could give him for sparing his life.

He had to die for Aidra to live.

Simple as that.

But this wasn’t his kill, or his call, to make.

He had to wait for the two men seated in plush wingback chairs to finish asking their questions.

They were brothers on opposite sides of the underworld. One was known only as The Kingmaker, a fixer of unparalleled abilities—he was capable of starting and ending wars, all for a price.

The other brother, however, was a former assassin, and the man who’d single-handedly cut through at least thirty men to free Christophe and so many others from a place he wished he could forget.

Nix, his name was.

The Facilitator.

And his handler.

Every second of the seven and a half minutes he stood there, he saw the conversation going on around him, but he didn’t hear a word.

He couldn’t focus.

He couldn’t think.

His finger slipping around the trigger of his rifle, Christophe considered pulling it, knowing the moment he did, the hot lead would tear its way through the man’s skull, and he’d be dead before he hit the ground.

“I’m a man of my word,” The Kingmaker said, drawing Christophe from his thoughts. “I won’t kill you this evening.”

The man, whatever the fuck his name was, didn’t have a chance to even sigh in relief before Nix aimed and fired.

Not even two minutes later, Nix’s phone rang.

Blood rushed in his ears, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. Frozen in place, Christophe waited on bated breath until finally, Nix was ending the call and looking at him.

“Thirty-two fifty-one Adame Street. Go, and don’t hesitate to cut through anyone in your way.”

He didn’t have to be told twice, nor did his brothers who were right at his heels the second he bolted from the room.

Once he was on his motorcycle with the address plugged into GPS, he took off without looking back.

“Slow down,” Aidra would have said if she was with him, her arms squeezing tight around his middle, “or you’ll crash and kill us both.”

She’d always hated when he drove recklessly, and even now, as he raced to save her life, she would probably be more concerned about him wiping out than the fact he was going well over a hundred miles an hour trying to get to her.

But Christophe didn’t care.

He just wanted to make sure he could get there in time so she could yell at him about being reckless with his own life.

He needed to get to her.

A robotic voice droned in his ear, spouting directions for the warehouse he was heading toward. It would have been a twenty-minute drive, he was sure.

Christophe made it in seven.

Squeezing the brake hard, it sent his bike skidding across the pavement, but even as he laid it down with little care to its paint, he was taking off across the parking lot, running faster than he ever had in his life.

His brothers were close behind, their booted feet echoing off the ground as they dashed after him, but his gaze focused straight ahead, only thinking about what he would find on the other side of the locked door.

Pulling the gun from its holster at his waist, Christophe fired, rearing back to send his booted foot against the door.

A crash sounded then a curse followed as a man ran out a back door, just a blur at the edge of his vision, but he didn’t direct his attention to the runner.

Rather to the tank set up in the middle of the floor.

Aidra …

Her hands and ankles were bound, but her eyes were wide with panic as the water feeding into the tank was nearing the top of her head.

“I’m going to get you out!” he said—he promised.

If it was the last fucking thing he did.

Christophe scrambled forward, trying to find the opening, but the latch was impossible to open, no matter how he twisted and pulled—and finally, losing his patience, he shot the fucking thing.

Nothing.

The bullets only embedded themselves in the metal but nothing more.

Tăcut, who was only a foot away, tried to shoot at the glass, but besides a vague scuff where the bullet struck, the glass held.

They’d made a tank of reinforced glass.

If possible, the panic only grew in Aidra’s eyes, mirroring what he felt.

He needed to think.

He needed to think.

He needed to think.

Nothing was ever truly bulletproof. If you shot it enough, its integrity would start to fail, and eventually, it would break.

That was easy—there was enough ammunition between the two of them that by the time they were done, there would be nothing left but dust.

He could get her out.

He would get her out, but even as hope filled him, time wasn’t on his side. The water was already above her head.

Three minutes …

He had three minutes to get her out before she drowned.

Christophe fired until his gun clicked, until the center of the glass was opaque, and he could no longer see Aidra’s face, but he did see the rest of her—the way her legs had stopped flailing and her arms had gone limp.

The panic and acute pain filling his chest were nearly too much. Too real.

She wouldn’t die. She couldn’t.

Not like this.

Not when he was right there and could save her.

One minute, Tăcut was beside him, and the next, the man was gone, only to return seconds later with a sledgehammer from a nearby workbench, and with every bit of strength he possessed, he sent it flying against the glass.

One hit.

Another.

Another.

Until finally, finally the glass front shattered and water gushed out, nearly taking them off their feet, but Christophe stood fast.

“Aidra!” he shouted, even as he pulled her from the tank, ignoring the feel of her clammy skin as he laid her flat, shoving the strands of her hair back from her face.

Stacking his hands on her chest, he pressed, trying to force the water from her lungs. Rearing up, he opened her mouth, blowing in air before he repeated it all again.

He didn’t stop, even as his arms cramped, even as he felt one of her ribs crack under the pressure.

But she never uttered a sound.

He knew.

He knew, but he didn’t stop.

She didn’t deserve this—not Aidra. She was too kind, too giving, too sweet—too much of what was good about him to be taken from the world as violently as she was.

Gut-wrenching screams echoed all around him, the noise nearly splitting his head open, and the only thing he wanted at that moment was for it to fucking stop.

But as he cradled her in his arms, holding her tight against him, he realized the screams were coming from him.

He whispered words she couldn’t hear.

Apologies.

Promises.

He would make this right.

He would avenge her until there was nothing left of him—at least what little was left now that she was gone.

Even as his mind seized on the bloodlust quickly churning to life inside him, Christophe remained where he kneeled, holding her close as he should have done before.

He should never have let her walk away.

His brothers stood silently around them, eyes on anything but the sight he must have made.

Of the lot of them, he knew how best to channel his pain, how to bury it deep until there was nothing left to feel—but he didn’t this time.

He let his grief consume him.

He needed to feel everything.

Christophe leaned forward, pressing his lips to her cold temple as he whispered a prayer, words he had never offered to another.

Don’t go, he wanted to say.

What would he do without her smile and laughter and joy?

How could he look Nix in the face, knowing he had failed the one task the man had asked of him—keeping her safe.

“She’s fragile,” Nix had said so long ago. “Whether she wants to admit it or not. Protect her—even if you have to protect her from herself.”

Their petty argument before she had stormed away from him played itself over in Christophe’s head, a reminder that he should have gone after her immediately instead of waiting.

He should have paid attention.

He should have driven faster, tried harder, broken through that fucking box before the fight in her waned.

Christophe should have done a lot of things.