Percival Covington burst into the courtyard, his expensive suit jacket flapping behind him like a cape. The scene before him made him stop dead in his tracks. He'd expected to find Lyra cornered, afraid, possibly hurt.
Instead, he found chaos.
Four security guards lay sprawled on the ground. One clutched his stomach, groaning. Another held his bleeding nose. The remaining two stood back, hands raised in surrender, eyeing Lyra as if she were a dangerous animal.
In the center stood Lyra, breathing hard, her dark hair falling loose from its careful style. Her stance was wide, defensive, ready to take on anyone else who dared approach her.
Jasper's jaw hung open, his previous smugness evaporated. He looked like a man seeing something impossible—something that shattered his entire worldview. Beside him, Orla's face had drained of color, her hand frozen over her stomach in what Percival instantly recognized as a calculated pose.
