Lucien

With an oath, Lucien clutched his chest where the bullet had pierced him as he spun around to shield his wife from the killer who stood in the doorway. His right arm, his firing arm, hung lifelessly as the blood-stained his shirt, seeping through to the dinner jacket he wore.

Proserpina mewled a sound of pain, trying vainly to staunch the bleeding, looking around helplessly for something to bind her lover’s arm as he stood, his face grey with pain and fury as he watched ...