He says something in Spanish, jerking his chin toward me.
Alexei answers without even looking at him.
Another cartel guy steps closer, eyes hard. He switches to accented English. “She shouldn’t be here.”
I feel every pair of eyes shift to me.
Alexei finally turns, slow and deliberate, and the temperature drops.
“Shut the fuck up,” he says calmly.
The cartel guy stiffens. “This isn’t smart.”
Alexei steps into his space, voice low and lethal. “What’s not smart is questioning me.”
Silence stretches tight as wire.
The cartel backs off. They finish the exchange fast after that, engines starting, doors slamming. Their vehicles pull away one by one, disappearing down the dock road like nothing just happened.
For half a second, I think that’s it.
Then the first gunshot cracks the night open.
Shouting erupts. Another shot. Then another. Bullets tear through the air, sparks jumping off metal, glass shattering somewhere behind us. Men scatter, yelling in Russian and Spanish and English all at once.
Alexei swears viciously in Russian and grabs my arm hard enough that pain shoots up to my shoulder. He doesn’t look back. He just drags me with him, boots pounding on concrete as we run.
I stumble but keep moving, heart in my throat, ears ringing from the noise. He hauls me toward the dark SUV parked near the edge of the lot, shoving me forward as another gunshot explodes close enough that I flinch despite myself.
The back door flies open.
He pushes me inside and slams it shut, then rounds the vehicle, already pulling his gun. The engine roars to life. We’re almost gone. Then the back door is ripped open again. I scream before I can stop myself.
Blade is standing there. Gun raised. Arm steady. Eyes locked on mine like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. For a split second, everything freezes. The docks. The gunfire. The noise. It’s just him. And then his gun tilts slightly. Right at me.
THIRTY-THREE
BLADE
We’re alreadyin position when the SUV rolls in. The boat docks are lit just enough to see shapes move, shadows sliding between warehouses like they belong here. We picked this spot for a reason. Too many exits. Too many blind corners. Too easy to turn into chaos.
Riot clocks the vehicle before I do, murmurs confirmation in my ear, but I’m already locked in. The Russian fucker steps out first. Tall. Clean. Confident. Same calm posture I saw in the warehouse months ago. Like the world bends instead of pushes back.
Then she gets out. And the air leaves my lungs. Bri follows him, quiet and composed, dressed in something expensive and tailored, hair styled in a way I’ve only ever seen on Brooke when she’s forced to play nice for events she hates. Bri has never been prissy. Never pretended to be something she’s not. But that’s exactly how she looks now. Polished. Controlled. Like she’s been molded.
My chest tightens so hard it hurts. She looks healthy. Too healthy for someone who’s been taken. No bruises showing. Noobvious fear. That should be a relief. It isn’t. Because she doesn’t look like my Bri. I can’t stop staring. I track every step she takes, every way she holds herself.
And that’s when it hits me. Her body is different. Not in a bad way. Fuck, I’ve always loved her curves. Loved every inch of her. But this is more than that. Her hips look fuller. Her chest heavier, pressing against the fabric of her dress in a way that makes my stomach drop. And her stomach. It’s subtle. So subtle I almost convince myself I’m imagining it. Almost. There’s a softness there that wasn’t before. A roundness that makes my pulse spike and my vision narrow.
No. No fucking way. My mind spirals instantly, violent and out of control. Is she pregnant? Did that Russian bastard touch her? Did he put his hands on her? Inside her?
Jealousy explodes in my chest like a grenade. The plan evaporates. I don’t hear Mason’s voice anymore. Don’t hear Dagger. Don’t hear anyone telling me to hold position. All I see is her. And him standing too close. I snap.
The first shot cracks the night open and all hell breaks loose. I don’t think. I move. Bullets fly. Men scatter. Someone yells in Russian. Someone screams. I sprint forward, firing as I go, using the chaos like cover, closing the distance fast.
I tear toward the back door just as the Russian shoves her inside, my pulse roaring in my ears, every step fueled by one thought only. I need to get to her. I tear the back door open and there she is. Right there. Real. Alive.
Her eyes find mine and go wide, shock and disbelief and something fragile breaking open all at once. The Russian turnstoo slowly. I don’t hesitate. I raise my gun and pull the trigger. One shot. Clean. Between the eyes.
