The floor of the guest cottage was cold, covered in a jagged carpet of shattered glass and drywall dust. Aria lay flat on her stomach, her cheek pressed against the rough wood, breathing in the smell of ozone and copper.
Above her, Damien was a heavy, protective weight. He had thrown himself over her the second the window exploded, shielding her body with his own. She could feel his heart hammering against her back—not erratic with panic, but steady and furious, like a war drum.
"Stay down," Damien breathed into her ear, his voice a low vibration that traveled through her spine. "He's adjusting for wind. The next shot will be lower."
Aria didn't argue. In her past life, she had learned to survive by being invisible. In this life, she was learning to survive by trusting the wolf on top of her.
"The Ghost," she whispered, looking toward the center of the room.
