His eyes lock on mine.
“Harper,” he breathes, raw and visceral.
“I’m fine,” I lie, chest burning.
He doesn’t waste time correcting me. His hand finds my wrist, grasping it firmly.
“Stay behind me,” he says.
We run, the corridor shaking with gunfire behind us. Two of Kiro’s men appear at the far end, waving us forward. The glass door to the stairwell explodes inward just as we reach it. Damian yanks me behind cover, his arm braced across my back, shielding me from the shrapnel.
With my face against his shoulder, his heartbeat is a thunder I can feel under my cheek.
We break apart only when Kiro shouts, “We have to go! Now!”
Moscow’s cold air slams into me as we burst out of the café. The entire block is in chaos—sirens, smoke, pedestrians scattering like startled birds. A van screeches up beside us, back doors flinging open.
Damian all but pushes me inside. The van speeds forward before he even closes the door.
I collapse onto the seat, lungs clawing for air. Kiro checks me for injuries.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod. It’s the weakest lie I’ve told all day.
Damian sits across from me. He’s not touching, not speaking to me, but every line of his body radiates a fury that isn’t aimed at me. The van’s hum fills the silence.
Damian stares at the floor for a long moment. His hands flex once. Twice. Then he lifts his head, eyes locked on to me with a force that steals the breath I fought so hard to keep.
“You shouldn’t have gone alone,” he says quietly, fear wearing the mask of authority.
“I had to,” I say.
He shakes his head once, sharply. “She could have killed you.”
“She almost did.”
He flinches slightly.
“And if you hadn’t come when you did,” I add, voice softer, unsteady, “I wouldn’t be here.”
The van turns. Streetlights streak across Damian’s face, carving light and shadow across his expression.
Kiro updates the team, radio chatter filling the front seats, but the air between Damian and me is its own sealed chamber.
Finally, Damian exhales.
“Harper,” he murmurs. “I will always come for you.”
I feel something inside me tip, like a balance shifting under its own weight.
The van cuts through traffic, heading back toward the estate. Behind us, the city blurs. Ahead of us, uncertainty tightens like a noose. Anton is no longer a distant monster. Inessa is no longer a whisper.
The extraction team disperses when we reach the estate gates. I step out of the van, the cold air stinging my cheeks,grounding me. Damian climbs out after me. The space between us crackles like a live wire.
Avoidance has never felt so much like gravity.
He opens his mouth—maybe to scold me again, maybe to thank me, maybe to say something entirely different.
