The sound of the door crashing inward wasn't just wood splitting; it was the final, violent punctuation mark to Daisy's fragile control.
Instinctively, she melted back against Romeo, his arms like a sudden, solid cage around her.
The vanilla-scented air turned acrid with the smell of old concrete and newly-drawn tension.
Two men stood framed in the splintered doorway, their suits expensive, their faces cold, and their intent unmistakable.
They were not police; they were cleanup crew, sent by someone powerful to make a mess vanish.
"Don't move," Romeo whispered again, his body language shifting from protective lover to honed weapon.
He didn't tighten his grip on her, but the muscles in his arms tensed, a silent promise of violence.
Daisy, however, was already moving. Not away, but subtly, her hand sweeping across the small table beside the sofa, her fingers closing around the cold, weighty base of a ceramic lamp. The action was swift, trained, and silent.
