Kiren’s men move through the building in organized sweeps, securing doors, checking bodies, collecting weapons, and speaking into earpieces as they report what they find. Their voices stay low and controlled, nothing like the frantic shouting that had filled the warehouse earlier.
Boots strike the floor in even patterns as teams move from section to section. Someone calls out in Russian near the loading bay. Another voice answers a moment later.
The place feels colder now that the chaos has burned itself out. I try not to look too closely at the floor where the enforcer fell after Kiren shot him, but my eyes find the crimson stain anyway.
Kiren notices. His hand returns to the center of my back and guides me forward before I can linger there.
“Keep moving,” he murmurs.
And this time, I do.
Outside, the cold hits like a slap. Winter air tears the warehouse smell from my lungs and replaces it with ice, diesel, and the mineral scent of snow ground into dirty asphalt. The yard is lit in broken sections by floodlights and headlights, the white glare bouncing off packed snow and frozen metal, making the whole place look harsher than it already is. My boots slip slightly on a patch of ice near the loading ramp, and Kiren’s hand closes more firmly around my arm before I can stumble.
“Careful,moya,” he breathes.
The word is quiet, but the grip that accompanies it tells me exactly how close he still is to losing the thin control he’s been using to hold himself together.
Lila is loaded carefully into the back of a black SUV with one of Kiren’s men beside her. Another vehicle waits behind it, the engine running, and exhaust curling white into the dark air.
Leo stands near the second SUV, speaking quickly into a phone. When he looks up and sees me, the words cut off mid-sentence. For a second, he stares.
He looks better than the last time I saw him, but not by much. His posture is careful, one shoulder held a fraction tighter than the other, the lingering stiffness of a wound that hasn’t fully healed yet.
Relief breaks across his face before he can hide it. “You’re alive,” he breathes, already moving toward us across the icy pavement.
“I am.” My own voice softens when I see him up close. “Leo… you shouldn’t even be out here.”
He gives a short shake of his head as if dismissing the concern. “You’re the one who got taken,” he replies. “Figured I’d show up for the ending.”
The attempt at humor doesn’t quite hide the strain in his eyes. I step closer before Kiren can guide me toward the waiting vehicle and reach out, briefly touching Leo’s arm.
“Thank you,” I tell him quietly.
He frowns slightly, caught off guard. “For what?”
“For trying to get me out that night,” I answer. “You didn’t have to take that risk.”
For a moment, he doesn’t respond. His jaw tightens, and he looks away toward the dark warehouse behind us. “Yeah,” he mutters finally. “Well. Next time we’ll try to keep the shooting part shorter.”
Despite everything, a faint smile touches my mouth.
Leo’s gaze returns to me once more, relief still lingering there. “You’re really okay?”
“I will be.”
He looks like he wants to ask more, but Kiren is already steering me toward the back of the SUV, and the look he gives Leo is enough to postpone the conversation. There will be time later for details, questions, and all the pieces of this night that still feel jagged and unfinished.
The ride to the hospital passes in a blur of dark roads, amber streetlights, and the SUV's interior heat, slowly thawing the feeling back into my hands. I sit in the back with Kiren beside me, his thigh pressed against mine from the moment thedoor closes. He doesn’t take his hand off me the entire drive. Sometimes it rests at the back of my neck, sometimes around my wrist. Sometimes it’s flat against my knee as if he needs the reassurance of contact as much as I do.
Neither of us speaks much. There’s too much beneath the surface for normal conversation.
At one point, I turn my head and look at him properly. There’s dried blood at the edge of his collar that isn’t his. A faint line of powder residue darkens the cuff of his coat. His expression doesn’t change, but the tension behind it is impossible to miss.
He feels me looking. “You’re hurt?” he asks at once.
“No, I’m okay,” I assure him.
He studies my face again, then reaches up and brushes his thumb lightly beneath my eye. When he lowers his hand, there’s a small streak of blood on his skin.
