A dark figure stepped through the threshold, the long barrel of a shotgun raised in his hands.

Adrian didn’t hesitate.

He fired three times from his position by the window.

The muzzle flashes lit the cabin in brief, violent bursts of orange light.

The roar of the gunshots was deafening in the small space, leaving a sharp, painful ringing in my ears.

The man at the door grunted, his body jerking backward before he fell onto the snowy porch.

“There’s more,” Adrian said, his voice flat and steady despite the chaos.

Outside, footsteps crunched rapidly on the frozen crust of the snow.

“They’re flanking,” he said.

A bullet shattered the kitchen window, showering the old linoleum with glass.

“Claire, move,” he said, reaching down to grab my arm.

His grip was firm, pulling me up before I could think.

We moved toward the back hallway just as a second man kicked open the kitchen door.

The cold winter wind rushed into the house, bringing a flurry of snow with it.

Adrian pushed me behind the wall of the pantry.

He leaned around the corner and fired twice into the kitchen.