Chapter 8 - The Ultimate Betrayal
Marcus, realizing he was completely abandoned and staring down the barrel of an unavoidable execution, made a desperate, calculated gamble. His hand whipped out, sliding across the mahogany desk to grab a heavy, loaded revolver hidden in the top drawer.
He didn't aim at Adrian.
With a frantic, wild look in his eyes, Marcus whipped the barrel around and pointed it squarely at Clara's chest. "Stay back, Blackwell! One move and I put a bullet through your little maid’s heart!"
Time seemed to fracture into slow motion.
Clara gasped, staring down the dark, circular metal mouth of Marcus’s gun.
She didn't have time to scream. She didn't have time to duck.
In a blur of motion that defied human reaction time, Adrian moved. He didn't aim his own gun at Marcus; instead, he stepped directly in front of Clara, using his own broad, heavy-coated body as a human shield between her and the weapon.
Bang.
The gunshot inside the small, enclosed office sounded like a cannon blast, deafening and violent. The bullet tore through the sleeve of Adrian’s heavy wool overcoat, grazing the side of his shoulder and embedding itself deep into the corkboard wall right behind Clara's head.
Before Marcus could cock the hammer for a second shot, Adrian raised his pistol with cold, mechanical precision and fired once.
The silenced weapon let out a sharp, muted pfft.
Marcus froze. A small, dark red circle blossomed instantly in the center of his forehead. His eyes rolled upward, and without a sound, he collapsed backward over his leather chair, crashing heavily to the floor and knocking over a rack of investigative files.
Silence rushed back into the room, thick with the sharp, coppery smell of gunsmoke and cordite.
Clara stood frozen against the wall, her hands trembling violently as she stared at the body on the floor, then slowly looked up at Adrian.
A dark, wet stain was spreading rapidly across the shoulder of his black coat where the bullet had grazed him. Blood began to drip down his sleeve, pooling against the dark fabric.
"Adrian..." she whispered, her voice breaking entirely as she reached out with shaking fingers to touch his arm. "You... you took a bullet for me."
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Adrian didn't even flinch at the wound. He holstered his weapon with his left hand, turned around, and looked down at her with those dark, intense eyes. He reached out, his warm, steady fingers gently cupping her pale cheek, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb.
"I told you, Clara," he murmured, his voice rough and uneven. "You belong under my roof. Not here. Never here."
