The threat hung in the air, heavy and absolute.
"Turn this foyer into a morgue."
It wasn't a shout. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the casual indifference of a man discussing the weather. Cyprian didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He just stared at the three security guards, his grey eyes void of any humanity.
The lead guard, a man twice Cyprian’s width, hesitated. He looked at the gun holster visible under Cyprian’s unbuttoned jacket. Then he looked at Lysander.
"Mr. Thorne," the guard muttered, stepping back. "We're private security. We don't do... shootouts. Not with him."
Lysander’s face turned a violent shade of purple. "I pay you to protect this house! Arrest her!"
"Arrest her on what grounds?" Cyprian asked, taking a leisurely step forward. The guards parted like the
