Scarlett woke to the sound of thunder.
At least, that's what her sleep-fogged brain told her for the first three seconds.
Thunder. A storm. Nothing to worry about.
Then she heard the screaming.
Her eyes snapped open, heart already hammering before her mind fully caught up. That wasn't thunder. That was—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Gunshots.
The sound echoed through the halls, sharp and violent and so much louder than they ever sounded in movies. Each shot cracked through the air like the world was breaking apart, followed by shouts, curses, the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the floor.
Scarlett threw off her blankets and ran for the door, her bare feet slapping against the cold marble. Her fingers closed around the handle and twisted—
Locked.
"No, no, no—" She pulled harder, rattling the handle desperately.
The door didn't budge. He'd locked her in. Sylus had locked her in her room like she was something to be protected, or hidden, or kept away from the reality of what he was.
More gunshots. Closer now. The sharp bark of automatic weapons overlapping, a symphony of violence just beyond her door.
"SOUTH CORRIDOR, MOVE!" That was Marcus's voice, rough with adrenaline.
"HOW MANY?" Someone else, unfamiliar.
"TOO FUCKING MANY!"
BANG BANG BANG—
A scream cut off abruptly. The wet sound of something heavy hitting the wall.
Scarlett pressed herself against the door, hands shaking so badly she could barely keep them flat against the wood.
This was real. This was happening. She'd known—intellectually, she'd known—that marrying a crime lord meant danger. Meant violence. Meant living in a world where death was just business.
But knowing something and experiencing it were two completely different things.
"RELOAD!"
"ON YOUR LEFT—"
BANG.
More screaming. Orders being barked in a language that was half English, half Chinese, half pure survival instinct.
The sound of boots pounding, glass shattering, something heavy being dragged across the floor.
And underneath it all, a voice that made her blood run cold and hot at the same time.
Sylus.
His voice cut through the chaos like a blade—calm, controlled, absolutely lethal. She couldn't make out the words, but she heard the tone. The voice of a dragon who'd been challenged in his own lair.
The voice of a man who was going to make sure everyone who'd made that mistake regretted it.
BANG—
A longer burst of gunfire. Someone gurgling, choking. The metallic smell of blood starting to seep under her door, making her stomach heave.
Scarlett stumbled back from the door, hands pressed over her mouth to keep from screaming. She couldn't live like this. She couldn't wake up to gunfire and death and the sound of people dying just outside her room.
She couldn't spend the rest of her life in a golden cage that smelled like gunpowder and blood.
She couldn't.
She wouldn't.
With trembling hands, Scarlett grabbed her phone from the nightstand. Her fingers shook so badly she could barely unlock the screen. She pulled up the dial pad, tried to remember
—what was the emergency number in China? 110? 120? Her mind was blank, panic wiping away everything except the sound of violence just beyond her door.
She tried typing 110. Her fingers slipped. She tried again. Delete. Try again.
Failed.
Another burst of gunfire made her drop the phone. It clattered to the floor, and she scooped it up with shaking hands, tears streaming down her face now. She couldn't call the police. Couldn't even remember how.
Couldn't think past the fear clawing up her throat.
But she could text.
pulled up her messages, scrolled through her contacts with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking.
There—Chen Le. Her classmate from university. He'd always been kind to her, always offered to walk her home, always seemed concerned about her well-being in a way that had felt almost protective.
He could help. He had to help.
Her thumbs flew over the keyboard, typos and all:
Chen Le please
Im in danger
Sylus qin – n109 zone
He wont let me go
Please help me escape
Please.
Im scared.
She hit send before she could second-guess it. Before she could remember that she had no service, no way to contact the outside world, that Sylus probably controlled every signal going in and out of this place—
The message showed as delivered.
Scarlett stared at the screen through her tears. Delivered. It had gone through.
Chen Le would get it.
He would help her.
He had to.
The gunfire was dying down now. Fewer shots. Longer pauses between them.
Just the occasional BANG followed by shouting, by the sound of people checking bodies, by orders being given in Sylus's deadly calm voice.
"Clear the east wing."
"Check for survivors."
"Burn the bodies."
Burn the bodies. Like this was routine. Like this happened often enough that they had protocols for disposal.
Scarlett was going to be sick.
She clutched her phone to her chest and sank down against the wall, knees drawn up, trying to make herself as small as possible.
The sounds were quieter now but somehow worse—the cleanup.
The aftermath. The sounds of efficiency that meant this was over, that one side had won, that people were dead and being dealt with like garbage.
Footsteps outside her door. Heavy. Purposeful.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Scarlett looked up, and the breath left her lungs in a rush.hallway beyond was a nightmare painted in red.
Bodies everywhere. Crumpled against walls, sprawled across the floor, stacked in corners where they'd been dragged out of the way. Blood painted every surface—the walls, the floor, the ceiling where arterial spray had reached.
The smell hit her like a physical force: metallic copper mixed with gunpowder, with the acrid scent of spent shells, with something else she couldn't name and didn't want to.
The chandelier that had hung in the hallway was shattered, crystal shards scattered like deadly confetti. Bullet holes pocked the walls like violent acne. A painting—some priceless piece of art she'd barely glanced at—hung crooked, slashed through with bullet wounds.
And in the center of it all stood Sylus.
He still held a gun in each hand, black metal slick with blood that might have been his or might have been someone else's. His white shirt was stained dark red, torn in places where bullets or knives had come too close.
His silver hair was disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that would have been beautiful if he wasn't currently standing in the middle of a massacre.
Blood spattered his face, his neck, his hands. But his red eyes were clear. Focused. And locked directly on Scarlett.
For a moment, they just stared at each other.
Him, the dragon who'd just defended his territory with brutal efficiency. Her, the captive bride who'd just realized exactly what kind of monster she'd married.
The gun in his right hand was still smoking slightly.
"Scarlett" He started, voice rough. He took a step toward her, and that's when she saw the blood dripping from his side. He was injured. She hadn't noticed at first, but now she could see the way he favored his left side, the dark stain spreading across his ribs.
Scarlett opened her mouth. To scream. To speak. To do something.
Instead, the world tilted sideways.
Her vision tunneled, darkness creeping in from the edges. The smell, the blood, the bodies, the sound of gunshots still echoing in her ears—it was too much.
Too much violence. Too much death. Too much reality crashing into her sheltered life all at once.
The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was Sylus dropping both guns and lunging forward, his blood-stained hands reaching for her as her legs gave out.
The last thing she heard was his voice, stripped of all its usual control, raw with something that sounded almost like fear:
"Scarlett!"
Then nothing.
Just darkness and the phantom sound of gunshots that would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life.
.
.
.
.
.
Scarlett consciousness returned, it came slowly. Like swimming up through deep water, fighting toward light that seemed impossibly far away.
Scarlett became aware of things in pieces. Soft sheets beneath her. The smell of antiseptic covering but not quite hiding the lingering scent of gunpowder. Voices speaking in low tones somewhere nearby.
"—blood pressure is stabilizing—"
"—shock, perfectly normal reaction—"
"—keep her sedated for now—"
That last voice made her want to fight back toward consciousness. Deep and commanding even when pitched low.
Sylus.
"She can't stay sedated forever," he was saying. "She needs to wake up. She needs—"
" With respect, Mr. Qin, she needs rest. What she witnessed was traumatic. Her body shut down to protect itself. Forcing her awake before she's ready could—"
"I don't care." His voice went hard. "I need her to wake up. I need to see her eyes. I need—" He cut himself off, and when he spoke again, he sounded almost broken. "I need to know she's okay."
"She will be. Physically, there's nothing wrong with her. Emotionally..."
The other voice—a doctor, probably—sighed. "That will take time."
Silence. Then:
"Leave us."
"Mr. Qin—"
"Leave. Us."
The door closing. Then just breathing. Two sets—hers, shallow and rapid, and his, deeper and measured and so close she could feel the warmth of him nearby.
A hand touched her forehead. Gentle. Reverent. Those same blood-stained hands that had held guns with such deadly efficiency now brushing hair back from her face with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
"I'm sorry," Sylus whispered. His voice was raw, scraped clean of all the usual control.
"I'm so sorry, kitten. You shouldn't have heard that. Shouldn't have seen—" He broke off,
and she felt his forehead press against her shoulder.
"I tried to keep you safe. Locked the door. Put my best men on your floor. But I couldn't stop you from hearing it. Couldn't protect you from knowing what I am."
Sylus hand found hers, lacing their fingers together. His palm was warm, calloused, still slightly tacky with blood he probably hadn't fully washed off.
"You'll hate me even more now,"
he continued quietly. "And you should. You should hate me for bringing this into your life. For making you live in a world where you wake up to gunfire. For being the kind of monster who can kill without hesitation and sleep just fine afterward."
He squeezed her hand gently. "But I can't let you go. Even knowing how much you'll hate me, even seeing how badly I'm breaking you—I can't. I waited too long. Lost you once. I won't survive losing you again."
His voice dropped to barely a whisper.
"So hate me, Scarlett. Rage at me. Try to escape. Try to hurt me. I'll take it all. I'll take everything you can throw at me. Just... just keep breathing. Keep living. Even if it's a life spent hating me."
Scarlett kept her eyes closed, kept her breathing steady, pretended to still be unconscious.
But inside, her mind was screaming.
Her phone was still in her pocket—she could feel it pressing against her hip.
The message to Chen Le was sent.
Help would come. It had to come.
Because Sylus was right about one thing: she couldn't live like this.
She wouldn't survive in a world painted in blood.
Even if the monster who'd painted it was currently pressing desperate kisses to her knuckles and whispering apologies like prayers.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued.