Dante ran through the blood-slicked halls of his home. The Vance forces had been decimated, crushed by Silas and his men, but Dante had heard over the radio that Victor had slipped past the perimeter with a mole.

He reached the library, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The bookshelf was swung open.

He raised his rifle, ready to slaughter whatever he found inside.

He burst into the panic room.

The sight stopped him dead. Miller was writhing on the floor. Victor Vance was slumped against the wall, bleeding and whimpering.

And standing in the center of the room, shielding his daughter, was Clara. She held the gun perfectly steady, her face pale but resolute.

When she saw Dante, she didn't collapse or cry. She carefully engaged the safety on the pistol and lowered it. "They tried to take her, Dante."

Dante dropped his rifle. He crossed the room in two strides, wrapping his arms around Clara and burying his face in her hair. "My queen," he breathed out, the words a sacred vow. "My fierce, beautiful queen."