Damon’s grip on my arm was a searing brand of cold steel, dragging me across the marble floor where Marco lay bleeding. The sound of Vladimir's enraged roar—the cry of "ISABELLA!"—had momentarily unsettled Damon, but it had instantly translated into a desperate acceleration. He hauled me up the grand, curving staircase toward the villa's upper levels, ignoring my gasps and the crushing intensity of the contractions.

“Up, up, up,” he hissed into my ear, his breath hot and frantic. ...