Lebedev adjusts. Fires again. The bullet punches through the truck bed. So close I feel the air displacement. Smell gunpowder sharp and acrid.
My ears ring. Everything sounds muffled. Underwater.
Then Rhys is there. Tackling Lebedev from behind. The two men go down hard on the icy pavement. The rifle skitters away across the frozen ground. Zeke kicks it clear. Nate and Caleb emerge from their positions, weapons trained on Lebedev.
Rhys gets Lebedev face-down. Knee in his back. Cuffs out. His movements are economical. Brutal. Effective.
"Don't move," Rhys growls. "Don't even breathe wrong."
Lebedev goes still.
"Yuri Lebedev, you're under arrest for attempted murder," Rhys says, yanking him to his feet. "We'll notify the feds you're in custody. They'll want to talk to you about the Volkov organization."
Zeke helps secure the scene while Nate and Caleb keep weapons on Lebedev. The street empties of bystanders until it's just our team standing in the snow surrounded by broken glass and bullet holes.
"You okay?" Rhys is beside me. Tilts my head to examine the cut on my cheek.
"Yeah. You?"
"Terrified. Furious. Relieved." He pulls me against his chest. Holds tight. "Don't ever do that again."
"It worked."
"You almost got shot." His voice shakes. "I saw him aim at you and I?—"
"But you were there." I pull back to look at him. "That's what matters."
"Let's go home," he says after a long moment.
The drive to the cabin passes in silence. Both of us processing what almost happened. What we almost lost. Inside, Rhys builds a fire. His hands shake. Not much. Just a tremor in his fingers as he stacks the kindling.
I wrap my arms around him from behind. "We're okay."
"This time." He turns in my embrace. "But there will be others. More threats. More people who want to hurt you because of the work we do."
"Then we handle them the same way we handled this one."
"I can't lose you."
"You won't." I kiss him. Soft at first. Then fiercer. "I'm not going anywhere."
He deepens the kiss. Desperate. Claiming. When we break apart, his breathing has changed.
"I need you," he says against my mouth.
"Then take me."
We barely make it to the bedroom. His fingers fumble with my shirt buttons. Too slow. I yank it over my head. Our clothesdisappear. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, the hollow between my breasts. Each kiss desperate.
He backs me toward the bed. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise. Good. I want the marks. Want proof this is real.
When he pushes inside me, I arch up to meet him. The stretch and fullness anchors me. Grounds me in this moment. His forehead drops to mine. Eyes locked on mine. Pupils blown wide.
"Don't look away," he rasps.
I don't. Can't. His rhythm builds. Each thrust drives deeper. Harder. My nails rake down his back. He groans against my mouth. The coil of heat tightens low in my belly. Pleasure edges toward pain. When I shatter, his name tears from my throat. He follows seconds later. Shuddering. Gasping my name like a prayer.
After, I settle against his chest. He traces lazy patterns on my bare back. My head rests over his heart, listening to the steady beat that proves we both survived.
