Chapter 2 - The Wolf at the DoorOrion’s body went completely rigid. In a fraction of a second, his hand dropped to the holster beneath his ruined jacket, his fingers wrapping around the cold steel of a customized SIG Sauer P226.
Ren extinguished the primary oil lamp with a swift puff, plunging the main room into deep shadows illuminated only by the faint, flickering amber glow of a single candle in the corner.
"Get down," Orion hissed, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. He lunged across the room, grabbing Ren by the wrist and pulling her flat against the floor behind the heavy oak table where his father lay unconscious.
Caesar didn’t panic. The mastiff melted into the shadows near the back hallway, his massive frame blending seamlessly with the dark pine walls. He was a silent predator waiting for an invitation.
"How many?" Ren whispered against Orion's shoulder, her breath hot against his collarbone. She wasn't shaking. Despite her three years of isolation, the adrenaline of a trauma bay had immediately kicked back into her nervous system.
"At least three," Orion murmured, his eyes fixed on the front door. "Professional sweep formation. They’re using thermal scopes—they must have landed a chopper on the ridge before the blizzard closed the air gap completely."
"They shouldn't be able to see through these walls," Ren whispered, her brow furrowing. "The cabin was built with old-growth cedar and insulated with dense lead-lined sheeting from an old Cold War fallout shelter left by the previous owner."
Orion glanced down at her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "A fallout shelter?"
"Property history," she muttered back. "The original owner was a paranoid nuclear physicist. The walls block thermal imaging, but they won't block high-frequency acoustic sensors if we make a sound."
Outside, heavy boots crunched against the fresh layer of autumn snow.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
The footsteps stopped directly on the wooden porch. The floorboards groaned under a heavy weight.
Orion raised his pistol, safety clicking off with a faint, deadly snik. His muscles coiled like steel springs. He knew how this played out. If they breached, he would take out the first two through the door, but the third would likely put a bullet through his father—or Ren.
A gloved hand rapped sharply against the wooden door. Three heavy knocks.
"Orion," a voice called out from the dark porch. It was smooth, dripping with false camaraderie, carrying a chilling Eastern European accent. "I know you're in there, little prince. The old man is bleeding out anyway. Save yourself the trouble. Step outside, and Viktor will make it quick."
Orion’s face twisted in pure fury. Viktor. Head of security. The exact traitor who had sold them out to Vance.
"You smell that, boss?" Viktor's voice echoed louder, mocking them through the keyhole. "The snow is turning red. Just like your empire."
Inside the cabin, Ren felt Orion’s tension reach a breaking point. The billionaire was ready to stand up, throw open the door, and draw fire away from the room to give them a chance.
Before Orion could move, Ren’s hand shot out, clamping firmly over his fingers holding the gun. She shook her head fiercely in the dark, her eyes burning with an intense, silent command: Don't be a fool. Wait.
Orion stared at her hand on his, feeling the steady, unwavering pulse of a woman who refused to let someone die in her home without a fight.
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On the porch, Viktor chuckled. "Alright. Burn the place down."
A heavy thud hit the exterior wall, followed by the terrifying, hiss-like sizzle of a phosphorus incendiary grenade rolling onto the front porch roof.
