Finn doesn’t answer him. He steps forward instead, gun low but ready, eyes flicking over me fast—checking for blood that isn’t mine, injuries I might not feel yet. His jaw is tight, expression carved from something dangerous and final.
Another shot rings out behind us. One of Finn’s men goes down hard, and just like that the street surges again—orders barked, boots moving, engines roaring as more cars skid in to seal the perimeter. I wipe my blade on my dress without looking.
Finn moves before I can finish my next kill. He grabs the back of my dress andhaulsme bodily toward the car just as I’m lining up another poor bastard who looks like he’s made the mistake of thinking I’m distracted.
“Get off me,” I snarl, twisting, knife flashing. “I’m not done—”
“I know,” Finn snaps, shoving me hard into the back seat. “That’s the problem.”
The door slams shut, locking me in just as another gunshot cracks the air. I lunge for the handle, furious, breath still coming too fast, but the engine roars to life and the car jerks forward. Finn’s in the driver’s seat now. Not waiting, not arguing. He floors it.
Streetlights blur past. Sirens wail somewhere behind us. My pulse is still pounding in my throat, my fingers slick with dryingblood as I press my forehead briefly to the glass and laugh—sharp, breathless, half-mad.
“Well,” I say, wiping my hands on my ruined dress, “what a night to celebrate our wedding tomorrow.”
Finn glances at me once, jaw clenched, eyes dark and burning. “You enjoyed yourself.”
“Immensely,” I reply sweetly. “Nothing says romance like arterial spray.”
He exhales through his nose, something between a growl and a laugh, and pushes the car harder.
The city blurs past the windows—streetlights streaking gold and white, rain-slick pavement reflecting too much light, too much movement. My pulse is still loud in my ears, the aftermath of violence clinging to me like a second skin. Blood drying. Hands steady now, finally, though they weren’t a moment ago.
Neither of us speaks, we don’t need to. The car slips into an underground garage without ceremony. No gates. No delays. The door seals behind us with a heavy, final clang that sounds a lot like a verdict.
Safe.The word settles wrong in my chest.
Finn’s men are already moving when the engine cuts—doors opening, hands guiding us out, voices low and sharp withefficiency. The building hums around us, controlled and quiet in a way that feels almost obscene after the street. He owns all of it. Every floor. Every exit. Every shadow accounted for.
Still, my knife stays in my hand. We move fast—through a private entrance, into a lift that smells faintly of metal and antiseptic. The doors close. The city vanishes. The hum of ascent replaces the chaos, and my body finally starts to notice the cost of the night.
The flat is waiting when we step out. Lights on. Warm. Immaculate. A man in scrubs appears immediately, summoned before we ever arrived.
“Bedroom,” the doctor says, already snapping on gloves.
Finn doesn’t argue. He guides me down the hall with a hand firm at my back, protective without asking permission. I’m sat on the edge of the bed before I can protest, silk and blood and adrenaline all tangled together.
The doctor steps in, clinical and calm. “All right,” he says. “Let’s have a look at you.”
I lift my chin, jaw tight, and finally set my knife on the bedside table. It lands with a soft, dangerous clink. Finn stays close, watching.
The doctor’s gaze flicks to my dress, then back to my face. “I’ll need you out of that,” he says calmly. “So I can check properly.”
Finn goes still. Not tense—dangerous.
“No,” he says flatly.
I don’t even look at him as I answer. “He’s a doctor.”
Finn’s jaw flexes. His hand curls like he’s imagining someone’s throat inside it. “I don’t care if he’s the feckin’ Pope.”
The doctor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rush. Just waits, professional as stone.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, firmer now. I reach for the zipper before Finn can stop me. “Unless you’d like me to bleed out on your pristine floors.”
That gets me a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but Finn steps back. Just one step. Enough. The dress slides down my body in a whisper of ruined silk and dried blood. I feel the air kiss skin that’s still buzzing from adrenaline, bruises blooming beneath the surface. I keep my chin high as I step out of it, refusing to feel small. The doctor’s eyes never linger. Not once. He gestures me toward the bed.
“Sit,” he says gently.
