He tears his mouth away, pressing his forehead against mine. Both of our chests heave, dragging in desperate lungfuls of the freezing air.
"My woman. My only priority. I will level the entire city before I let anyone take you from me."
"I know," I whisper, my hands still gripping the lapels of his coat. "I'm counting on it."
A dark, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It is the first time I have seen the expression on his face, and it transforms his harsh, aristocratic features into something breathtakingly handsome.
"We need to secure the breaches," Santi says, his voice returning to its calm, tactical cadence, though his hands refuse to let go of my hips. "The temperature in here is dropping rapidly. We cannot survive the night with the doors blown open."
I nod, shifting back into practical pilot mode. "The desk. We can break down the wooden desk and use the planks to barricade the front window and the back door. We have the nails from the splintered chairs."
"Agreed." Santi steps back, though he keeps one hand resting possessively on my lower back for a second longer than necessary.
We move into action. The emotional high of the confession settles into a grim, determined focus. We are a team. We are surviving.
Santi drags the bodies off the porches, tossing them over the snowbanks to keep the immediate perimeter clear. He stripstheir vests and weapons, bringing the stolen magazines and a fully loaded assault rifle back inside. He is methodical, stripping the enemy of resources and adding them to our own.
I gather the broken pieces of the wooden chairs that were destroyed in the crossfire. I find an iron fireplace poker to use as a makeshift hammer.
Together, we dismantle the wooden desk. Santi uses brute strength to snap the legs off the base, tearing the heavy planks apart with his bare hands. He lines the wood up over the shattered front window, and I drive the nails in, sealing the breach against the raging blizzard.
We move to the back door. We wedge the broken doorframe shut, nailing thick planks across the center to create a solid barricade.
The cabin is dark again. The storm still howls outside, but the planks cut the worst of the cold. We are sealed inside.
Santi strikes a match and feeds the weakened stove fire with splinters from the ruined door. The golden light flickers across his face as he kneels by the open stove door.
I walk over to him. I do not hesitate. I sit on the floor beside him, leaning my shoulder against his bicep.
He immediately wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me tight against his side. He kisses the top of my head, his beard scratching pleasantly against my scalp.
"Forty-eight hours," Santi says, staring into the flames. "Dominic's extraction team moves when the storm breaks. Until then, we hold this ground."
"We hold it," I agree, resting my hand on his thigh.
I stare at the fire. The adrenaline is beginning to fade, leaving a deep, bone-weary exhaustion in its wake. But I am not afraid. The fortress I built to keep the world out is gone, replaced by the unbreakable hold of this man's arms.
I close my eyes, listening to the crackle of the burning wood.
Then, the ground beneath us vibrates.
My eyes snap open. I sit up straight.
Santi goes rigid. The arm around my waist tightens until I feel every rigid muscle lock against my ribs.
The vibration grows stronger. It is not an earthquake. It is a rhythmic thumping that reverberates through the frozen earth and up into the wooden floorboards of the cabin.
A low, mechanical whine cuts through the sound of the wind.
It is the distinct revving of snowmobile engines. Plural.
Lots of them.
Santi stands up slowly. He reaches for the stolen assault rifle resting against the stone fireplace. He checks the magazine with a terrifyingly calm efficiency.
"I was wrong," Santi says softly, his focus fixed on the barricaded front door.
I stand up beside him, picking up my Glock from the desk. My hands are steady. "About what?"
