There wasn’t anyone around to hear, but the distress and the struggle pricked Matthias’s nerves. In fact, as he stood between the two, he was far from the calm, master-of-all-he-surveyed guy he’d always been in the past: He was in great pain. He was exhausted. And he felt that what was about to happen next was predestined, but not something he would have chosen.

He was utterly out of control and totally locked in at the same time.

With the eyes of both Childes on him and everyone quiet again, he braced himself against the counter, his creaky body protesting at the shift in position.

“You know what pisses me off about you,” he said to Alistair. “I saved the good one.” He nodded down at Grier. “I could have left you with that son of yours. But no, I took the broken one—put your dear Danny boy out of his misery and yours.”

He could remember being surprised at his own thought process at the time. It was much more characteristic of him to take the one that would have hurt worse, but he’d gone a different way at that crossroads.

Maybe he’d started to change before he’d ordered the death. Who knew.

Who cared.

He was too far down for saving, and his conversation with Jim over the phone had shown him, instead of the possibilities for his redemption, the reality of his condemnation. It was time to end this . . . and go out with a bang.

Only this time, get it right.

At that moment, Isaac Rothe appeared in the archway of the kitchen. His eyes went to Grier first, and not even his stoic self-possession could hide his stark fear.

He loved that woman.

Well, good for him, the poor bastard.

“Welcome to the party,” Matthias said numbly, as he brought up his gun and pointed it at her.

“Don’t do it,” Isaac bit out. “Take me, not her.”

Matthias stared at the woman’s wide, terrified eyes and the way she seemed to be mouthing something along the lines of, Oh, God, no . . .

“I’m really sorry about all this,” Matthias said to her. And he meant it. He wasn’t sure what was crueler: to kill her in front of Isaac . . . or leave her to survive the man’s death—assuming that love of his was reciprocated.

Too bad one of them was going to die now—so that Jim Heron would be forced to come in and shoot Matthias—thus evening their score. The soldier had saved him two years ago against his wishes and now . . . tonight . . . he was going to do what he should have back in the desert.

“Matthias,” Isaac said sharply. “I’ll put my gun down.”

“Don’t bother,” he murmured, still focused on Grier. “You know, Ms. Childe, he turned himself in to me to save you. Twice. It was all about you.”

“Matthias, look at me.”