They stood in Killian's study—the same room where Isla had found the surveillance photos and the email that led her to Viktor. Dawn light filtered through the windows, painting everything in shades of gray and gold. Beautiful. Peaceful. A complete lie.
Killian moved to the cabinet where Isla had found the guns hours ago. Pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Poured with hands that were steadier than they should be considering he'd just held a gun to Viktor's head. He held out a glass to Isla. She took it but didn't drink. Just waited.
Killian downed his in one swallow. Poured another. Then finally turned to face her. The blood on his face had dried. The bruises were darkening. He looked exhausted and dangerous and absolutely wrecked.
"Her name was Natasha Volkov," he said quietly. "I met her when I was twenty-three. She was Viktor's daughter."
Isla's breath caught.
