Chapter 50 Blood Bond
Alessia couldn’t remember how she got them to the clinic.
The memories came in pieces, jagged and out of order. Adrenaline wearing off. Smoke still burning her lungs. Exhaustion blurring the edges of everything.
She remembered finding a car with the keys still inside. Remembered driving with one hand while the other stayed pressed to Liam’s shoulder, blood soaking through her fingers no matter how hard she tried to stop it. Remembered him drifting in and out of consciousness, his skin too cold, his breathing too shallow.
She remembered dialing the number Katherine had given her. The one she’d said to never use unless there was no other choice.
When you need help that can’t leave a trail, call this. No questions. No records. Cash only.
The clinic was in Queens, hidden behind a physical therapy office that looked clean and boring and harmless. You had to know which door to use. How many times to knock.
Alessia barely remembered knocking at all.
She remembered stumbling inside, half carrying Liam, her voice shredded from smoke and screaming as she begged someone, anyone to help him.
The surgeon had been an older Asian man with calm eyes and hands that didn’t shake. She’d taken one look at Liam and pointed down the hallway.
“How much cash do you have?”
“Fifty thousand.” Alessia remembered the bag, Liam’s bag, the one he’d thrown at her days earlier. She’d grabbed it before the factory. Is it instinct or maybe luck. “Is it enough?”
“It’ll do. Wait outside.”
That had been three hours ago.
Now Alessia sat in a narrow, windowless waiting room, her hands still trembling, her clothes stiff with blood and ash and debris.
Thorne was dead.
The footage was gone.
All of it—the proof, the leverage, the chance to burn everything down cleanly, destroyed in the explosion.
And Liam was on an operating table because he’d chosen her.
Because he’d thrown a knife instead of letting her die.
"Why? Thought he hates me," she thought.
After everything she’d done. After betraying him. After wrecking his future.
Why would he still choose her?
The door opened.
The surgeon stepped out, peeling off bloodied gloves. Her face gave nothing away.
“He’ll live.”
The words hit Alessia so hard her knees nearly buckled.
“The bullet missed the subclavian artery by two millimeters,” the man continued calmly. “Any closer and he would have bled out before you arrived. He lost a lot of blood. He’ll need rest. Antibiotics. No strenuous activity for at least two weeks.”
Relief crashed through Alessia so violently it hurt. “Can I see him?”
“He’s still under anesthesia. But yes. Room two.”
Room two was small. Clean. Too quiet.
A narrow bed. Monitors humming softly. Equipment that looked far too advanced for something that didn’t exist on paper.
And Liam.
He looked pale and motionless with an IV in his arm. His shoulder wrapped thickly in bandages. His chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
Alive.
“He’ll wake in an hour or two,” the surgeon said. “Make sure he drinks water.” He paused at the door, studying Alessia. “I’ve seen a lot of couples over the years. Partners. Spouses. Whatever people call themselves.”
“We’re not—”
“The ones who survive,” the surgeon interrupted gently, “are the ones who choose each other. Not out of obligation but out of will.” His eyes were sharp, knowing. “That man chose you tonight. And you dragged him out of hell. That’s not duty but love.”
Then she left.
Alessia sank into the chair beside the bed, her body finally surrendering. She stared at Liam’s face, so peaceful without the anger, the grief, the weight he carried awake.
Her hand found his without thinking.
Cold. But steady and strong.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For all of it. For the lies. For the betrayal. For pulling you into this.” Her voice broke. “You should hate me. You should’ve let me die.”
His fingers twitched faintly in her grasp.
She held on anyway.
An hour and forty-three minutes later, Liam stirred.
Alessia had dozed off, her head resting against the edge of the bed, her hand still locked around his.
She woke instantly.
“Liam?”
His eyes struggled to focus. Then found her.
“Lex,” he rasped.
“Don’t talk.” She grabbed water, guiding it to his lips. “Drink.”
He swallowed, coughed, sank back.
“Where…?”
“We are safe. Off the books. You had surgery. You’re going to be okay.”
His eyes closed briefly. Then opened again.
“Thorne?”
“Dead.” Her throat tightened. “You killed him.”
The memory hit him slowly. “Factory?”
“Gone. We barely made it out.” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
His fingers tightened around hers. “You saved me.”
“You saved me first.”
“No.” His gaze sharpened despite the fever creeping in. “You took the sniper. Perfect shot. You saved me.”
“And you threw the knife.”
Silence settled between them.
“We’re even,” he said softly.
“Are we?”
“I don’t know.” His voice faded, exhaustion dragging him down. “But you shot him for me. Not for justice. Not for the mission. But for me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She could’ve lied.
But she couldn't or maybe she didn't have to lie anyone.
“Because I love you,” she whispered. “Even knowing it might ruin us. Even knowing I don’t deserve you.”
Something broke in his expression, pain, relief, longing all tangled together.
“The oath,” he murmured. “Blood for blood.”
“I remember.”
“I meant it.” His grip tightened. “Life for life. You’re mine. I’m yours.”
Tears streamed down her face. “Okay. I hear you.”
His eyes finally closed. His breathing evened.
But his hand never let go.
Alessia stayed there, listening to the machines, to his breath, to her own heart finally slowing.
Everything else was gone—the mission, the evidence, the lies.
What remained was simple.
Blood for blood.
Life for life.
She rested her head near his shoulder, careful not to hurt him, her fingers still entwined with his.
Not because it was safe.
But because he was alive.
And he had chosen her.
Again.
And this time, she wasn’t letting go.