The interior of Cassian's armored Mercedes SUV smelled of rich Italian leather and suffocating silence.
We had been on the road for two hours, heading north toward the coast where the Auction was being held. We were a three-car convoy: Rook leading in a scout car, us in the middle, and Claudia trailing in the rear vehicle with four more guards.
I sat in the passenger seat, my knees pulled up to my chest. The small paring knife he'd given me was tucked into the waistband of my jeans, the cold metal biting into the skin of my stomach. A constant reminder. Soft things are destroyed.
Cassian drove with one hand on the wheel, his eyes constantly scanning the mirrors. The tension rolling off him was palpable, thick enough to taste. He hadn't spoken since we left the estate.
"Are you going to tell me what I'm supposed to do when we get there?" I finally broke the silence, hating how small my voice sounded against the hum of the engine.
"Stay close to me," he said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Do not speak unless spoken to. And do not, under any circumstances, tell anyone your real last name."
"Who am I supposed to be, then?"
He glanced at me then, his golden eyes unreadable. "You are mine. That is all they need to know."
A shiver ran through me at the possessive weight of those words. Before I could analyze the feeling, Cassian swore viciously.
"Get down!"
He slammed on the brakes.
I didn't have time to react. A massive black truck peeled out from a hidden side road, slamming directly into the side of Rook's lead car. The sound of metal screaming against metal was deafening.
Our SUV swerved violently. Cassian threw his right arm across my chest, pinning me back against the seat just as a second vehicle—a sedan with darkened windows—rammed our rear bumper.
We spun. The world became a blur of gray asphalt and green trees. I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat as the SUV skidded off the road and slammed into a ditch, tilting precariously on two wheels before crashing back down.
Glass shattered. Smoke hissed from the engine.
"Are you hurt?" Cassian demanded, already unbuckling his seatbelt. His voice was terrifyingly calm amid the chaos.
"I—I don't think so," I gasped, my head spinning.
"Stay here. Lock the doors." He pulled his Glock from its holster and kicked his door open.
Gunfire erupted outside.
I scrambled to lock the doors, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I peered through the cracked windshield. It was a war zone.
Rook's car was totaled, but the giant was already out, taking cover behind the hood and firing a submachine gun at the attackers. Cassian was moving like a wraith through the smoke, his shots controlled and lethal. He dropped one attacker before the man even got out of the truck.
It was horrifying. It was mesmerizing. This was the man who raised me. The Monster under the bed.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over my window.
A man's face appeared—scarred, grinning, and unfamiliar. He held a crowbar.
He swung hard, smashing the passenger window. The reinforced glass spiderwebbed but held. He swung again. Shards exploded inward, raining down on my lap.
I screamed, scrambling backward over the center console, away from the reaching hand.
"Gotcha, little bitch," the man snarled, reaching through the broken window to unlock the door.
The knife.
My hand flew to my waistband. I fumbled for the handle, my fingers shaking so badly I nearly dropped it. I pulled the small blade free just as the man yanked the door open.
He lunged inside, grabbing my ankle to drag me out.
"No!" I kicked out wildly. I raised the knife, ready to strike, ready to do what Cassian said—to gut him.
Two deafening booms rang out right beside my ear.
The man's grip on my ankle vanished. He jerked backward, two neat holes appearing in his chest. He collapsed onto the asphalt without a sound.
Cassian stood there. He lowered his smoking gun, his face a mask of cold fury.
He stepped over the body and leaned into the car, grabbing my arm. He dragged me out of the wreckage and hauled me against his chest, shielding my body with his own as if he expected the sky to fall.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his hands patting down my sides, checking for wounds with frantic urgency.
"No... no, I'm okay," I stammered, shaking uncontrollably against him.
I looked down at the dead man. He wasn't wearing a police uniform. He wasn't a hero. He was just a brute with a crowbar who had tried to drag me out of a moving car.
"You were right," I whispered, the realization hitting me harder than the crash. I clutched the lapels of Cassian's tactical vest, burying my face in his chest. "You were right, Cassian. They tried to kill us."
Cassian stiffened for a moment, then his arms wrapped around me, crushing me against him. It wasn't a hug; it was a cage.
"I told you, Elena," he growled into my hair, his voice vibrating through my bones. "The world doesn't want to save you. It wants to consume you."
He pulled back slightly, his thumbs tracing the line of my jaw, forcing me to look at the carnage.
"Look at him," he ordered, pointing to the dead man. "That is what waits for you outside my walls. Do you still think I'm the villain?"
I looked at the blood. I looked at the smoking wreck. Then I looked up into the golden eyes of the man who had just slaughtered someone to keep me safe.
"No," I breathed, trembling. "You're not the villain."
"Then what am I?"
"You're my shield."
His eyes darkened, a flash of something possessive and dangerous igniting in their depths.
"Remember that," he said, wiping a speck of ash from my cheek. "Because from this moment on, I am the only thing standing between you and the grave."
He released me, turning toward the backup vehicle where Claudia was waiting, looking annoyed rather than worried.
"Get in the other car," Cassian commanded. "We aren't stopping."