She stands there with the gun sagging in her grip, hands shaking violently now that it’s over, breath sawing in and out like she’s clawing air into her lungs. There’s blood on her knuckles. Not hers. Not mine.
Her eyes remain feral, unashamed.
Steel.
Something old and bone-deep inside me uncoils, stretches wide in my chest like it’s been waiting decades to wake.
“Move!” she screams.
Not my name.Not a plea.
An order.
It hits harder than any bullet.
Because in that one word, I hear it clean—
She is not my burden.She is not the soft place I die for.She is not the pretty thing I bleed out protecting.
She is my match.
And holy fuck, she always has been.
I surge toward her before the thought finishes, grab her face in both hands, thumbs framing her jaw like I need proof she’s solid, breathing, real. She flinches at the blood on my skin, then leans into it, eyes bright and savage, lips parting like she might say my name and swallow it in the same breath.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snarl. “I told you to run.”
Her laugh is half hysteria, half fury. “Yeah?” she spits. “I told you I wasn’t leaving you to die.”
Another gunshot rips overhead, chewing a crater into the floor inches from my boot. Carlo’s reminder: this isn’t a moment.
This is a war.
Pia doesn’t flinch.
She lifts the gun again, barrel tipping upward like a dark fucking offering.
“He’s not killing you,” she says, voice shaking but grim as a verdict. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
My heartbeat stutters.
I’ve bled for family.I’ve knelt for God.
No one has ever stepped between me and death and chosen me back.
I catch her wrist, drag her closer until our faces are a shared breath.
“Stay behind me,” I growl.
She shoves my chest hard enough to rock me.
“No,” she says, and God help me, there’s no fear in it at all. “I’ll stay alive. Try to keep up.”
Something savage and unholy tears loose inside me.
I kiss her.
Not soft.Not slow.
