"Safe house," he says. "Loft on Water Street. It’s secure. Lead-lined walls. No digital footprint. Purchased through a shell company three years ago."
"Does Nikolai know about it?"
"No one knows about it. Not even Luca."
He pulls the Bronco down a narrow, cobblestone alleyway that looks like a dead end. He presses a remote clipped to the visor,and a rusted corrugated metal door rolls up, revealing a dark garage.
We glide inside. The door rattles shut behind us, sealing out the sirens, the city, and the chaos.
The silence that follows is heavy. Thick. Suffocating.
Silas kills the engine.
For a second, neither of us moves. We just sit there in the dark, the ticking of the cooling engine counting down the seconds. The air in the cab is saturated with our scent—adrenaline, pheromones, old leather, and the metallic tang of dried blood.
Then, Silas unbuckles his seatbelt.
The sound of the click is the trigger.
I don't wait. I scramble over the center console, ignoring the gear stick digging into my hip.
He meets me halfway.
His hands grab my waist, hauling me into his lap. My back hits the steering wheel, the horn letting out a short, muffledhonk, but we don't care.
His mouth crashes onto mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. It’s a desperate attempt to consume each other. He tastes like violence and victory. He tastes like the only thing that matters in a world that just tried to kill us.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding my hips against his. He is hard. Painfully hard. The erection pressing against me through his tactical pants is a solid bar of heat.
"You’re alive," he murmurs against my mouth, biting my lower lip. "You’re alive. You’re here."
"I’m here," I gasp. "I’m yours."
He groans, a guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine. He fumbles for the door handle, shoving the driver’s side door open with his elbow.
"Inside," he commands, dragging me out of the truck with him. "Now."
We stumble toward the elevator at the back of the garage. Silas doesn't let go of me. He keeps one arm wrapped around my waist, lifting me off my feet as we move, my boots barely skimming the concrete.
He swipes a key card. The elevator doors slide open.
We fall inside.
He slams me against the mirrored wall. The glass is cool against my back, a sharp contrast to the furnace of his body pressing into my front.
"You cut him," Silas whispers, his eyes blown wide, staring into mine. He sounds amazed. He sounds obsessed. "You put a knife in Nikolai Sokolov’s chest."
"He touched me," I say, breathless. "He touched my hair."
"I should have killed him," Silas snarls. "I should have put a bullet in his brain right there."
"We got the money," I remind him. "We won, Silas."
"We’re not done winning."
He reaches for the zipper of my tactical jacket. He yanks it down. The sound is a harshzzzzztin the quiet elevator.
