“W-where are you going?” she stammered, straining her neck to catch a glimpse of him.

He emerged from the bathroom holding his holstered gun. At the smooth sound of the gun sliding from its leather home, her throat constricted.

He took aim.

“No,” she choked, the word weak and strangled as she struggled to sit up despite the uncomfortable pull on her arms.

“I didn’t want it to come to this.” His lips thinned into an unforgiving line. Hard malachite-green eyes looked down at her, and she knew hope was useless. “It’ll be quick,” he promised.

Jamming her eyes shut, she tried to shrink into the smallest ball possible in anticipation—

The gun didn’t explode in her ears. Not like in the movies. A soft zing stabbed the air. At first, she felt only pressure. No pain. Claire opened one eye. Then the other. Gideon stood in the same spot, observing her with mild interest as he unscrewed the silencer.

Then came the pain, washing over her in undulating waves of heat, then cold. Bracing herself, she sucked in a breath and looked down. Blood soaked the front of her shirt, making it impossible to tell exactly where she had been hit. So much blood. The coppery scent overwhelmed her.

“Oh God,” she wailed, turning accusing eyes on him. “You really shot me.”

Only moments ago she had kissed him, drank passion from his lips, his body, reveled in the feel of his callused hands on her face. Hands that had now delivered her death. The betrayal hurt more than the hole in her chest. Which only made her a fool since she had known he was dangerous from the first moment they met and failed to do anything about it. She glanced back down at the blood spreading across her shirt like an orchid in bloom and cursed her stupidity. Why hadn’t she gone to the cops? Or used her gun?

But she knew the answer. She hadn’t truly believed him dangerous. In spite of everything, something about him had always struck her as… reasonable. Not a killer.

“You really shot me,” she whispered.

He nodded.

Tears blurred her vision.

“Sorry.” He nodded again, looking only faintly apologetic. “It’ll be over soon.”

She strained against the cuffs, overcome with the need to free herself and staunch the wound.

“Uncuff me! Let me at least die with my hands free.”

“You’re not dying,” he said a touch impatiently.

“It burns,” she groaned, even as the burning sensation seemed to ebb. Numbness was setting in. Death must be near.

“It’s the healing sensation.”

Claire blinked several times. “What?”

“Your cells are regenerating.”