[Elena's POV]

The parlor smelled of cordite, wet asphalt, and fresh blood.

Noah didn't let me retreat upstairs. He kept his left hand firmly anchored to my lower back, his thumb pressing a steady weight through the thin fabric of my sweater.

He positioned me slightly behind his shoulder, presenting a united, shielded front as the heavy double doors swung open.

Marco Marlowe walked in.

He carried no weapon. He didn't bring a single guard. The metal tip of his cane clicked against the ...