Around us, the brothers move again—faster now. Purpose sharpened.
Konstantin’s arm comes around my shoulders, possessive and absolute.
“Stay with me. Promise.”
“I promise.”
The words settle between us like a vow carved in stone.
The room transforms into a war chamber. Weapons laid out with ritual precision. Clips checked. Knives strapped. Radios tested and discarded for quieter channels. Mike and Lev murmur in low, efficient bursts, sketching perimeter lines and fallback points with quick strokes. Dimitri marks exits—three ways in, five ways out, none of them pretty.
Fear hums under my skin, a live wire. But it doesn’t paralyze me. It sharpens me.
Konstantin turns me toward him and lifts a bulletproof vest. The weight of it surprises me when he settles it over my shoulders—solid, unforgiving. His hands linger at my waist as he tightens the straps, thumbs pressing reassurance into muscle and bone. He leans in until our foreheads touch, breath warm, steadying.
“I love you,” he says. Not careful. Not restrained. Raw, like it hurts to keep it inside.
I cup his cheek, feel the stubble under my palm, the heat of him. “Then don’t walk into this alone,” I whisper. “Ever.”
His eyes close for a beat. When they open, they’re dark and clear and terrifyingly certain.
Outside, the night waits—snow falling in slow, quiet sheets, swallowing sound, hiding footprints. Engines hum low. Doors open. The air bites my lungs as we step out, and the cold feels like a promise.
As we move toward the vehicles, I understand it—not with fear, but with clarity.
I’m not running anymore.
I’m not hiding.
I’m no longer the hunted.
I’m part of the hunt.
Chapter 22 – Konstantin
The drive to the abandoned shipping district is taut with tension. Snow falls in heavy sheets, blanketing the streets, swallowing sound, turning the city into a frozen graveyard. Every streetlight cuts a weak, yellow line through the white. I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles white beneath my gloves.
Raelyn sits beside me, her fingers laced with mine, refusing to let go. The warmth of her hand—small, soft, insistent—anchors me, even as my mind sharpens into predator mode. Every shadow, every distant shape, every whisper of wind becomes a threat to be measured, calculated. She keeps me human even as this world of blood and steel demands I be a monster.
When we reach the warehouse row, Mike’s signal comes—a subtle lift of his hand from the back. My team fans out, silent and deadly. Lev positions the strike team along the perimeter. Dimitri checks the rooftops. Roman and Mike move through the back alleys.
I glance at Raelyn. She doesn’t flinch. She’s steady, her jaw tight, eyes sharp, surveying the terrain like she owns it. She leads me forward, confident, deadly calm.
Through a gap in the rusted corrugated walls, she finds the hidden door to her father’s sub-station—metal warped and pitted with years of neglect.
“My father once brought me here when I was eight,” she says solemnly. The same place. The same smell of oil, dust, and old paper. The sub-station is untouched—her father’s meticulous care frozen in time. Evidence boxes stacked neatly, filing systems intact, a small ledger bound in leather.
I let her take the lead. Her eyes scan, hands glide over the files like a practiced investigator. I cover her, sweeping the shadows, scanning every corner, every potential ambush point.
This is our world now. Tonight, it will end for anyone who dared to touch her.
I notice it first—a steel case bolted into the floor, edges worn but the lock pristine. I point.
She stops and exhales sharply. “I recognize this,” she says, voice tight. “It belonged to my father.”
“Can you open it?” I ask, stepping closer.
Her eyes narrow, fingers brushing the lock. “If I look at the combo, maybe…I might remember.”