We stand there for a long moment, me shaking apart in Enzo’s arms, surrounded by the smell of gunpowder and blood, while Sokolov’s body cools on the concrete.
Then Enzo tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. They’re dark and serious and full of something I’m afraid to name.
He kisses me.
Softly. Lips brushing mine like a question, giving me space to pull away. When I don’t, he deepens it. The kiss turns thorough and searching, as if he’s trying to communicate something he doesn’t have words for.
I kiss him back and taste copper. I don’t know if it’s Sokolov’s blood on my lips or my own. It doesn’t matter. Right now, I just need this contact. I need the solid, immovable weight of him to anchor me to earth while the rest of the world spins into a blur of red and gray.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathing hard.
Enzo rests his forehead against mine, and for a moment, we just stand there, sharing air, existing in the same space.
“Get me out of here,” I whisper when I find my voice again. “Please.”
His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together. “Of course.”
The choice of where to go sits between us, unspoken. Now that Sokolov’s threat is gone, I could ask him to take me to my apartment, and go back to the life I had before.
Or I could choose this. Choose him, and embrace the violence and the danger and the terrifying possibility that what Ifeel for Enzo Valerio might be more than heat-bonded attachment, or our shared vengeance against Sokolov.
That it’s something deeper.
Something that could destroy me worse than any bullet or death.
“Your place,” I say. And then, quieter, the words that feel like crossing a line I can’t uncross. ”Take me home.”
Enzo goes still, like the word hit him somewhere deep.
“Okay,” he says softly.
Just that. Then he’s guiding me toward the door, one hand on my lower back.
I don’t look at Sokolov’s corpse as we leave. Don’t need to.
That chapter is closed.
Whatever comes next—whateverthisis with Enzo—that’s still being written.
SEVEN
The drive back is quiet. Enzo sits beside me in the back of the car, his hand clasped with mine. My knuckles are split and swelling, blood dried on my skin, and he keeps running his thumb over them in slow, careful circles. Like he can soothe the damage.
I stare out the window and see nothing. The city is a blur of lights and shadows, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I should be processing what just happened.
I killed a man.
I should feel something about that. But I don’t.
“We’ll clean you up when we get home,” Enzo says quietly, breaking the silence. “Ice for your hands. Food. You need to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be.” He brings my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles, one by one, avoiding the split area. “Adrenaline crash. Your body’s going to demand food and sleep whether you want it or not.”
“You’ve done this before,” I observe. “Killed someone and then… what? Gone home and had dinner?”
“Uh-huh,” he admits without hesitation or shame. “This is what I am, Luca. What my life is.” His eyes meet mine in the dim light of the car. “If you stay, this is what you’re choosing. Not every day, but sometimes.”
