The men surge toward the black SUVs. Engines roar to life, diesel exhaust drifting through the bay.
I turn away and head for the iron stairs.
Step by step, my breathing evens out. By the time I reach the office landing, the monster is locked back in his cage.
The heavy door opens.
Helena isn’t curled up on the sofa where I left her.
She stands by the glass wall instead, watching the army of men load into the vehicles below. The soot has been washed from her face, her dark hair pulled into a tight knot at the base of her neck.
Earlier, I had Ivan bring clean clothes from the penthouse so she wouldn’t have to sit in what she’d worn on the bridge.
She's wearing my oversized black sweater, a pair of dark jeans, and her heavy leather boots. The sleeves of the sweater are pushed up past her elbows, and she looks completely transformed.
When she hears the deadbolt click shut, she turns to face me. The silence in the office is a sharp contrast to the roar of the engines downstairs. Her eyes immediately take in the ballistic armor strapped to my chest, the combat boots, and the assault rifle hanging from the sling in my hand.
"It's time," I tell her softly, dropping the warlord act completely. "We found the tablet's signal. They're holed up at an old coastal oil refinery in the North End. We're leaving now."
Her breath hitches slightly. Her eyes widen as she processes the sheer scale of the operation happening through the glass below. "You're going to war."
“Yes.”
I set the rifle on the edge of the desk and step closer, my hands settling on her shoulders — firm, controlled.
“I’m leaving my ten best, most heavily armed men here at the Meat Grinder to guard the perimeter. You’ll stay locked inside this office until I return with the tablet.”
I expect her to nod, but she doesn’t.
The fragile, trembling survivor from the bridge is gone; in her place stands a woman taller, spine rigid, chin lifted as she meets my gaze with a defiance sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs.
“No,” she says, her voice steady and low.
My grip tightens on her shoulders before I can stop it.
“Helena.”
"I'm going with you," she demands. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she takes a half-step closer until her chest brushes against the hard plates of my tactical vest. She looks up at me, her eyes unyielding. "They dragged me out of a car, tied me to a chair, held a knife to my skin, and promised to cut me to pieces… I'm not sitting in a glass box, hiding like a coward while you finish this. I want to see them burn, Konstantin. I'm going with you."
I stare down at her in silence.
Every rational instinct tells me to lock the door, throw away the key, and leave her somewhere safe. The protective part of my mind insists that bringing her into a war zone is tactical suicide.
But darker instincts rise faster — possessive, paranoid — choking out logic.
Her bruised face holds my gaze. Yesterday, I put her in a rolling tank guarded by my best men, convinced she was untouchable, but she was still taken from me.
If I leave her here, miles away in this warehouse, I won’t focus on the raid. I’ll be watching my comms, waiting for a breach alert, wondering if she’s still breathing.
A slow, proud smile curves at the corner of my mouth.
She isn’t a liability to manage or a porcelain doll to lock on a shelf. She’s my equal. And with terrifying clarity, I realize I need her exactly where I can see her.
“I’m putting you in a fully armored command vehicle at the edge of the refinery,” I tell her, my tone dropping into something immovable. “You won’t step foot outside that truck. I left you behind yesterday and nearly lost my soul. That’s never happening again.”
Her eyes flash — wild, triumphant heat — and she doesn’t retreat from the intensity in my voice.
My hand rises almost without thought, tracing the unbruised line of her jaw. Beneath my thumb, her pulse flutters fast and eager. I lean down and claim her mouth in a hard kiss, swallowing the soft gasp that escapes her.
