Chapter 3 - When the Glass Shatters
The heavy brass rollers screeched in protest along their tracks as the blackout curtains parted like the curtains of a stage.
Vast, brilliant, afternoon light flooded the master bedroom, exposing every grain of dust dancing in the air.
The room was transformed instantly from a gothic tomb into an expansive, panoramic suite overlooking the sprawling pine forests of northern Illinois.
The sudden brightness struck Liam Mercer like a physical blow.
He raised an arm across his eyes with a low hiss of shock, his knuckles shielding his vision from the unaccustomed brilliance.
“Pull them shut!” he roared, attempting to sit upright despite the surgical pins through his leg.
The violent motion tore at his fresh abdominal sutures, and a sharp gasp of pure agony broke through his chest.
He collapsed back onto the pillows, his face sheet-white, sweat beading instantly across his forehead.
“Stop moving,” I commanded, running to the side of the bed to stabilize his pelvis before he could torque the external fixator.
“You’re going to tear the fascia open again if you twist your torso like that!”
“You stupid, reckless girl,” he choked out, his chest heaving as he stared at me through eyes red from light and rage.
“You think this is about my mood?”
“You think I sit in the dark because I’m sulking over a broken leg?”
“Look out the damn glass!”
I froze, keeping one gloved hand pressed against his uninjured shoulder to prevent him from lunging upward again.
Slowly, I turned my head toward the massive double terrace doors that opened out onto the stone balustrade.
Across the manicured lawns, beyond the high stone boundary wall lined with wrought-iron spikes, stood a ridge of dense pine forest.
The sun was setting behind it, casting long, sharp shadows across the clearing.
And then, halfway up the ridge, nestled among the dark boughs of a towering spruce, a momentary glint of polished glass caught the dying light.
It was a clean, sharp optical flash.
A sniper’s scope.
Cold ice flooded my veins, dropping straight to the pit of my stomach.
The realization slammed into me with the force of a freight train.
Liam Mercer had not kept the blackout curtains sealed because he was depressed, angry, or playing the tragic wounded mobster.
He had kept them sealed because the moment he was illuminated against the backdrop of his bedroom, a high-caliber round would punch through the glass and end his life.
“Get down,” Liam rasped, his voice dropping into a razor-edged command.
Before I could react, the distant crack of a rifle echoed across the valley, a sound like a whip snapping in the cold air.
The heavy tempered glass of the upper terrace pane shattered with an explosive, deafening roar.
Spiderwebs of fractured glass bloomed across the frame as a high-velocity slug slammed into the carved headboard twelve inches above Liam’s skull.
Wood splinters exploded into the room like shrapnel.
Instinct took over before thought could process the danger.
I threw my entire body weight forward, tackling Liam flat against the mattress and shielding his chest and head with my own torso.
Another shot cracked, punching through the adjacent window, showering my back with a spray of tempered glass pellets.
Down in the courtyard below, the sudden cacophony of barking guard dogs and shouting men erupted into chaos.
Automatic gunfire returned from the perimeter grounds, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of assault rifles answering the unseen shooter on the ridge.
Liam lay beneath me, his hands instantly coming up to grip my upper arms.
He didn't shove me away.
Instead, his powerful forearms locked around my frame, rolling his upper torso slightly to place his broader shoulders between me and the exposed window.
Even with shattered bones and severed abdominal muscles, his predatory instinct to protect took precedence over his own agony.
“Stay low,” he breathed directly against my ear, his heartbeat pounding against my ribs like a war drum.
“Don’t lift your head until the perimeter team clears the treeline.”
I lay pressed against his chest, the smell of his skin, clean soap, antiseptic, and cold adrenaline filling my senses.
The heavy mahogany door to the bedroom was kicked open with tremendous force, banging against the stop.
Leo burst into the room, a submachine gun held at the low ready, three armed tactical guards swarming in behind him.
“Boss!” Leo barked, sweeping the room before taking a knee beside the bed, weapon trained on the shattered terrace glass.
“Treeline sniper,” Liam said, his voice completely calm, steady, and devoid of the panic that was currently rattling my teeth.
“Third ridge, four hundred yards out, disguised in the spruce cluster.”
Leo tapped his earpiece, barking coordinates into his radio with rapid-fire military precision.
“Teams Two and Four, sweep Grid Seven immediately! Suspect is on the high ridge, take him alive if possible!”
Within seconds, two guards moved to the windows, pulling the heavy secondary steel security shutters down with a heavy, metallic clatter.
The room plunged back into darkness, illuminated only by the tactical flashlights mounted to the guards' weapons.
The deafening storm outside began to recede down the hill, engines roaring as pursuit vehicles tore down the estate's private perimeter road.
In the sudden stillness of the armored room, I became acutely aware that I was still lying across Liam Mercer’s chest.
My face was inches from his collarbone.
His hands were still gripping my arms, holding me securely against his body.
I looked up into his face.
In the harsh white beam of Leo’s weapon light, Liam’s eyes were locked onto mine.
There was no contempt there now.
There was no mockery, no cold indifference, and no aristocratic arrogance.
There was only a stark, electrifying shock that I had thrown myself over him instead of diving for the hallway floor.
“You are the most infuriating, reckless woman I have ever encountered in my life,” he said softly, his voice vibrating deep in his chest.
“And you,” I whispered, struggling to steady my trembling breath as I slowly pushed myself up onto my knees, “are an impossible patient who should have warned me.”
He let out a short, ragged breath that was half-groan and half-laugh.
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“I told you not to touch the blinds, Clara.”
“Next time,” I said, wiping a fleck of broken glass from my forehead with the back of my trembling glove, “tell me someone is trying to blow your head off instead of letting me think you're just allergic to daylight.”
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