Another shot. Another scream.
He rolls onto his back, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath him, the other clutching his shoulder, blood blooming fast through his shirt. The pistol slips from his hand onto the concrete, landing in a slow, trembling spin.
Yuri steps forward. His expression is carved from ice. No rage. No panic. Just the cold precision of a man who’s been preparing for this single moment.
He walks past me without a glance and heads straight to Spalding. With a swift, deliberate motion, he kicks the gun farther across the floor. It clatters against the concrete, spinning out of reach with a hollow metallic ring.
Spalding groans, writhing in pain, slick with blood. His breath stutters in his throat as Yuri crouches beside him.
“You never learn,” Yuri says, voice low. “But you will.”
Spalding coughs, blood flecking his lips. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” he gasps. “I had a deal?—”
Yuri cuts him off with a smile so sharp it could gut a man. “You had nothing.”
Spalding’s eyes roll. “This–this isn’t over.”
Yuri chuckles. “For you it is. You’re done.”
Then he stands and finally—finally—turns to me. The mask cracks.
Yuri drops to his knees, fingers working at the zip ties cutting into my ankles. His hands tremble. Just barely, but I see it.
“I’ve got you,” he says, the words tumbling out. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
The ties snap free.
I sit up, and he gently cups my face, his thumbs brushing away the dried blood at the corners of my mouth. I should say something clever, something strong—but all I can do is fall into him, body sagging into the circle of his arms.
He holds me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Like he still doesn’t believe I’m real.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, though it’s not entirely true. I’m bruised, shaken, and falling apart inside. But I’m breathing. And he’s here. And that’s enough for now.
His lips find my hair, my temple. “He won’t touch you again. No one will.”
I let out a shaky breath.
The moment barely has time to settle before we hear the pounding of boots. The door slams open. It’s the FBI. Black uniforms, bulletproof vests, rifles drawn.
Lev steps forward from the shadows, cool and collected. He lifts his hands slowly, showing he’s unarmed. One of the agents nods at him with familiarity. Respect.
Yuri doesn’t flinch. He just keeps one hand on me, grounding us both.
The lead agent eyes the room, the carnage of bodies and blood. He sees Spalding sprawled on the floor, sobbing into the concrete.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Get him up.”
Two agents move forward and snap cuffs on Spalding’s wrists. He babbles—curses, threats—most of them aimed at Christian.
“He left me here!” he howls.
The agents drag him upright. One reads him his rights. The other tries not to step in the blood.
I watch, dazed. The man who held a gun to my head, who tried to trade me like a pawn, is now screaming like a child as they carry him off. It should feel like closure.
But it doesn’t. Not with Christian still out there.
“He had a back door,” Yuri says, like he can read my thoughts. “Had it the whole time.”
