27. Roman and Cassie
ROMAN AND CASSIE
T he wrought-iron gates of my estate hung open like broken teeth, twisted metal that had been sheared apart by explosives. The afternoon sun cast harsh shadows across the carnage that had once been my kingdom.
Bodies littered the drive—my men, my security detail, people who’d sworn to protect this place with their lives. The air reeked of gasoline and betrayal, a combination that made my stomach turn even as rage burned white-hot in my chest.
I parked the car and stepped out, my hand instinctively moving to the Glock at my hip. The mansion loomed ahead, windows reflecting the dying light like dead eyes. But I could see an unnatural glow flickering inside—not sunlight. Firelight.
Gasoline. The bastard was planning to burn it all down.
"Cassie," I breathed, and every protective instinct I possessed roared to life.
I moved toward the front entrance with practiced silence, my weapon drawn but held low. The massive wooden doors hung askew, splintered by whatever explosive Declan had used to breach the security. The smell of accelerant grew stronger with every step.
Inside, the marble foyer was a war zone.
Furniture overturned, bullet holes in the walls, dark stains on the floor that I didn’t want to examine too closely.
But it was the gasoline-soaked walls that made my blood run cold.
This wasn’t just about killing me—this was about erasing everything the Creed name had built.
A sound from above made me freeze. Banging. Shouting. Cassie’s voice, muffled but unmistakably desperate.
She was alive. For now.
"I was wondering when you’d arrive."
Declan’s voice echoed from the main staircase, calm and conversational like we were discussing the weather instead of the systematic destruction of my life. He stood halfway up the steps, his pale eyes cold in the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows.
In his right hand: a gun pointed directly at my chest.
In his left hand: a lit match, the small flame dancing dangerously close to gasoline-soaked wood.
"Let her go, Declan." I kept my voice steady, controlled, even as fury threatened to consume me. "Take me instead. This is between us."
His laugh was sharp, bitter. "Take you instead? Oh, Roman. You still don’t understand. This isn’t about trading lives. This is about erasing mistakes."
Above us, Cassie’s voice grew more frantic, the sound of something heavy slamming against wood. She was trying to break out of whatever room he’d locked her in. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced myself to stay focused.
"How long have you been the mole?" I asked, the question bothering me ever since the pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity.
"From the beginning." His smile was sharp as a blade. "You really thought I’d bow down to Patrick Creed’s golden boy forever? As I told Cassie, your father promised me a seat at the table. Real power. Instead, you turned that into a leash."
The admission hit like a physical blow. Declan—my consigliere, my trusted advisor, the man who’d stood by my side through every crisis—had been planning my downfall from day one.
"So you sold out to the Torrinos. Got my men killed. Nearly got me killed." My finger tightened on the trigger, but the match in his other hand kept me from taking the shot. One spark, and this place would go up like a candle with Cassie inside.
"I did what was necessary to survive your weakness." He stepped down one stair, then another, the gun never wavering from my chest. "Letting a woman in was your first mistake, Roman. Love makes kings into beggars."
"Then you don’t understand love at all."
"I understand it enough to know it’s going to get you killed." Another step down. "Drop the weapon."
"Let her go and take me," I repeated, desperation creeping into my voice. "She’s innocent in this."
"Innocent?" Declan’s eyes glittered with malice. "She’s the poison that infected your judgment. But don’t worry—you’ll both burn together. How romantic."
My mind raced through possibilities. The distance between us. The angle of his gun. The gasoline fumes that would turn this place into an inferno the moment that a match found an accelerant. But all roads led to the same conclusion—as long as he held that flame, I couldn’t risk Cassie’s life.
Slowly, carefully, I placed my Glock on the marble floor and raised my hands.
"Good boy," Declan said, descending the last few steps. "You always were too predictable, Roman. Too honorable for your own good."
He was close now. Close enough that I could see the satisfaction in his pale eyes, the years of resentment finally given free rein. This had never been just about power or money or territory. This had been personal.
"Any last words?" he asked, raising the match toward the gasoline-soaked banister.
"Yeah." I smiled, cold and predatory. "You talk too fucking much."
I lunged forward, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat. My shoulder caught him in the midsection, sending us both crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and violence. The gun spun away across the marble, but the match?—
The match stayed in his grip.
We rolled across the gasoline-slicked floor, trading brutal hits that echoed through the empty mansion.
Declan was younger, but I was stronger, fueled by rage and desperation.
My fist connected with his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways, but he recovered quickly, driving his knee toward my ribs.
I caught his leg and twisted, using his momentum to slam him into the base of the staircase. Wood splintered behind his head, but he managed to wrap his arm around my throat, cutting off my air supply.
"Should’ve let me kill you clean," he gasped, tightening his grip. "Now you get to burn alive."
Spots danced at the edges of my vision, but I could still see that damned match flickering in his other hand. I drove my elbow back into his ribs, once, twice, until his grip loosened enough for me to break free.
Cassie
The guest room door was solid oak—beautiful, expensive, and absolutely fucking impossible to break down with my bare hands.
I’d been throwing myself against it for what felt like hours, my shoulder screaming in protest with each impact. The wood had barely even scuffed. Declan had chosen his prison well.
"ROMAN!" I screamed until my throat was raw, pounding my fists against the door until my knuckles bled. "ROMAN, I’M UP HERE!"
The smell of gasoline was getting stronger, seeping under the door like poison. I could hear voices downstairs—Roman’s voice, clear and strong, then Declan’s smooth replies. They were talking, negotiating, and every word felt like a countdown to disaster.
What I could also smell was something else. Smoke.
Panic clawed at my throat as I looked around the room desperately, searching for anything that could help. A letter opener on the desk—too small. A lamp—too bright. Then my eyes landed on the marble bookend shaped like a rearing horse.
Heavy. Solid. Perfect.
I grabbed it and started attacking the door hinges instead of the lock. If I could pop the pins, maybe I could get the door to fall away from the frame. The sound of impact echoed through the house as I hammered at the first hinge, desperation giving me strength I didn’t know I possessed.
A crash from downstairs made me freeze. Bodies hitting the floor.
They were fighting.
The third hinge pin came loose just as I heard Roman’s voice, strained with effort. He was in trouble. He was going to die because of me, because I’d become his weakness. Because he loved me more than he loved staying alive.
Like hell.
I wedged the bookend into the gap I’d created and threw my full weight against it. The door groaned, shifted, and finally gave way with a crack that sounded like gunfire.
I was free.
The hallway was thick with gasoline fumes and something else—real smoke, not just the threat of it. Somewhere in this house, the fire had already started. I could hear grunts and thuds from the foyer below, the sound of a brutal fight.
I reached the top of the main staircase just in time to see Roman and Declan locked in combat on the floor below. They were covered in gasoline, rolling dangerously close to the walls where accelerant had been splashed.
And Declan still had that fucking match.
Roman managed to get on top, his hands fighting for control of Declan’s wrist. But I could see the strain in his shoulders, the way Declan was fighting to bring that flame closer to the nearest surface. The match was flickering, threatening to go out, but still burning.
We were all going to die if that match found its mark.
The marble bookend was still clutched in my hand, solid and heavy. I calculated the distance, the angle, and the risk of hitting Roman instead of Declan.
Then I let it fly.
The bookend caught Declan just above the left ear with a sickening crack. His eyes rolled back, his grip on the match loosening just enough for Roman to tear it away from him. The flame guttered out against the marble floor.
"Stay away from my fiancé, you bastard," I snarled, the words coming out before I could stop them.
Roman looked up at me, something shifting in his expression. He’d pinned Declan’s unconscious form beneath him and scooped up the gun that had been knocked away in the fight. The barrel pressed against Declan’s temple.
One pull of the trigger, and this nightmare would be over.
But as he looked up at me through the haze of gasoline fumes, I could see him hesitating. Not from mercy—from something else. Some recognition of what this choice would cost him.
"Roman," I called softly, moving down the stairs toward them. "It’s over. He’s finished."
But even as I said the words, I could see smoke beginning to curl from somewhere deeper in the house. Whatever fire Declan had started before Roman arrived was spreading, and the gasoline fumes were making everything worse.
Roman’s finger was on the trigger, Declan motionless beneath him. For a moment, I thought he might pull it. End it cleanly.
Then Declan’s eyes snapped open.
His hand moved with desperate speed, pulling something from his jacket pocket. Another book of matches.
"If I can’t have the empire," he gasped, striking a match against the box, "no one can."
Time slowed to a crawl as I watched the fresh flame flare to life in Declan’s grip. Roman could’ve shot him—should’ve shot him—but I was behind him, and the angle was wrong.
Instead, Roman dove forward, trying to knock the match away from Declan’s hand.
Too late.
Declan, dazed but determined, flicked the burning match toward the gasoline-soaked stairs where I stood.
The world exploded into orange and gold as flames raced up the banister like living things, consuming everything in their path. The heat hit me like a physical blow, singeing my hair and making my eyes water.
"ROMAN!" I screamed, but the roar of the fire swallowed my voice.
The mansion—Roman’s father’s legacy, his kingdom, our home—began to burn around us.
And somewhere in the smoke and chaos, I could hear Declan laughing.