Obsession His Runaway Bride (Noelle and Adrian) novel Chapter 115

Chapter 115: Gunfire

Chapter 115: Gunfire

The hallway was chaos. Boots thundered across the marble floors, shouts cracked like whips in every direction, and the shriek of gunfire echoed off the walls like a war drum.

Marco bolted upright as his instinct gripped him like a vice. He didn’t bother with a shirt. He just reached under the bed, yanked out the black bulletproof vest, and threw it over his bare torso. The handgun carne next, loaded and cold in his hand, with the safety flicked off as he charged out the door. His bare feet pounded against the cold floor as he made his way through the corridors.

As soon as he reached downstairs, the gunfire had shifted closer.

He turned a sharp corner, nearly colliding with a panicked servant, and shoved past without a word. His goal was clear–Bartholomew’s quarters. If the house was under attack, he had one duty and that is to protect the man who raised him.

He reached the double oak doors of Bartholomew’s room, already partially open. The older man was awake, seated on the edge of his bed in a silk robe, pistol in hand, lips drawn into a deep frown.

“Marco,” he said coolly, even as chaos thundered beyond the hall. “About time.”

Before Marco could speak, one of Bartholomew’s personal guards burst in with sweat slicking his brow and rifle clutched tight in shaking hands.

“Sir!”

Bartholomew stood near the window, unmoved by the panic. His voice was cold and clipped as he asked. “Which organization?“.

The guard blinked, clearly confused. “What?”

“Who the hell is attacking us, damn it!” Marco asked, irritated.

The guard’s mouth opened and closed like he couldn’t believe the words about to come out. Until he finally shook his head. “It’s not an organization, sir.”

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes.

“It’s Miss Grace,” the guard said, breath hitching. “She’s alone–and she’s armed to the teeth. Two assault rifles. Tactical gear. We don’t even know what else she’s carrying,

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Marco’s blood ran cold as his mind reeled not only from fear but also disbelief, knowing well who Grace was.

The Grace Blackwood.

The woman who had once stood in the shadows of Bartholomew’s empire. The woman who was shaped by silent rejection and bitter expectation. She was never meant to fight. Bartholomew made that clear from the beginning- Grace was to be polished, obedient, to be a symbol of elegance, not war.

But Grace… Grace had never been the obedient kind.

While other daughters were taught how to pour tea and smile on command, Grace was slipping out at night with bruises on her knuckles and blades hidden in her sleeves. Every attempt on her life hardened her resolve. Every scar became a lesson.

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+25 BONUS

She taught herself to fight when no one else would train he

And when Bartholomew finally realized the fire he had caged, he did what he always did–used it. He pulled her into his world, molded her into a weapon.

Now, that weapon had turned on them.

Marco’s thoughts raced. Out of all the men in the estate, he was the only one with the skill to counter her. He had trained beside her. He had watched her evolve–from the broken girl everyone dismissed, to the predator no one saw coming.

And the thought of him raising a weapon against her made his chest cave.

‘I can’t shoot her.’ He thought.

But she would shoot him. If he stood in her way, she wouldn’t hesitate.

And that, more than anything, shattered him.

But Marco’s thoughts were cut short when the sharp, panicked screams of men erupted just outside the door.

“She’s here! She’s coming through-!”

Gunshots rang out like thunder–three, four, five–followed by a sickening silence, broken only by the wet thud of a body hitting the floor. Another scream, choked.

Marco instinctively stepped back while tightening his grip on his gun, heart pounding against his ribs. Every breath he drew was shallow and hot, like the air itself had thickened with blood.

‘She’s close.‘

His mind split in two. One part of him urged him to raise his weapon, to prepare for the kill. But the other half- the one that had loved her, who still did in spite of everything, wanted to believe she hadn’t come here to murder

them all in cold blood.

‘But why else would she be this merciless? Why now?‘

He looked at the door. Looked at Bartholomew. Then back again.

His grip faltered for a moment.

“Marco.” Bartholomew said. “Whatever happens, protect me.”

But Marco didn’t answer. His ears were strained against the silence outside. There were no more footsteps. No more screaming. Not even the soft rustle of movement.

Just the awful, suffocating stillness.

“…What’s happening?” Bartholomew asked in a whisper, obviously getting scared.

Marco turned attempting to part his mouth parting to respond–but the answer was ripped from his grasp as a sudden crack of gunfire tore through the door. The thunderous sound jolted the room like a lightning strike. The guard beside them barely had time to react before he was thrown backward, bullets ripping through his chest. He fell hard as the rifle slipped from his hands. The man’s body slammed into the floor in a boneless sprawl as blood began to darken the marble beneath him.

A heartbeat later, a second shot rang out.

Bartholomew’s body jerked and he fell on his chair. A strangled grunt escaped him as a bullet tore through his shoulder. He recoiled with a growl of pain, clutching at the wound, while blood already soaked through the fabric

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of his expensive suit. His breath hissed between clenched teeth, with fury and disbelief etched into every line of his face.

Marco stepped forward instinctively, but stopped short the moment the door creaked open.

And there Grace stood.

She stepped through the threshold like a phantom returning to the scene of her own death. Her clothes were almost covered in blood, but it was not hers. Her blouse clung to her like second skin as crimson stained the cotton in wide, dark blotches. A streak of blood cut across her cheek, barely masking a shallow graze along her jaw. And in her hand, she held a handgun.

Marco’s breath caught in his throat.

She didn’t look at the guard bleeding out at her feet. She didn’t acknowledge Bartholomew’s pained gasps or the way he clutched his shoulder. Her eyes were cold and unblinking. There was nothing soft left in her expression. No hesitation. No grief.

Bartholomew snarled in pain and rage the very second she appeared before him. “You bitch!” he spat, struggling upright with one hand pressed hard against his wound. “You dare step foot in this house? You ungrateful-”

“Shut your mouth, Bartholomew.“–