Blyad.
My cock twitches. And I know, with absolute certainty, that tonight is not going to end the way I planned.
I step back and gesture toward the trees.
“Go.”
She pushes off the car and moves toward the tree line. She moves into the dark. The brass glints dull on her knuckles as she moves. My eyes track every motion, catalog the angle of her shoulders, the rhythm of her breath.
I follow ten paces behind. Close enough to keep her in sight, far enough to force the echo of her own heartbeat to fill the space between trees. Pine needles crunch under my boots. The wind moves through the branches and carries her scent back to me—marshmallows and damp earth and the faint bite of metal. I breathe it in and hate myself for how much I want more.
She stops at a fallen log, turns, waits. Moonlight slices across her face in thin bars. Her eyes find mine like she never lost track of where I was.
“So?” she asks, low, controlled. “Test begins now or you gonna stand there brooding about my underwear again?”
I almost smile.
Instead I close the distance slow, boots silent on the moss. I reach into the small of my back and pull the Glock. One smooth motion. She flinches, just once. Then steels herself.
I rack the slide and let the round hit the log. Empty. Harmless. I toss the gun away.
I draw the knife from my hip. Eight inches, matte black, the edge honed to a whisper. I flip it once, handle to blade, then toss it toward her.
She doesn’t touch it.
I strip off my jacket, feel the night bite across my ink. “Pick it up.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to fight me and you need an advantage, your knife is shit.”
“Right now, right here? Just pick up the knife and fight?”
“After you run.”
Run?” She lets out a shaky breath and my pulse stutters.
“Yes, Ayla.Run.”
Chapter 14
Ayla
“Wait.”
The word comes out steadier than I feel.
“I need a head start.”
He chuckles; low, dark, like this is really entertaining him. My heart is slamming, but I don’t let my body show it. I’ve learned that trick the hard way. Panic is loud. Control is quiet.
I’ve been through worse.
Gabriel hasdoneworse.
I lock my knees so they don’t sway, dig my boots into the dirt, force my breath into something usable. In through my nose. Out slow. If I shake, it’ll be because I choose to move—not because I’m scared.
“You have three minutes,” he says.
