Chapter Nineteen
Tomasz —
The makeshift war room was a high-rise penthouse on the southern edge of Atlanta. Tomasz leaned against the railing of the open-air balcony, cigarette glowing in the wind. The city stretched below like a bed of coals.
He hated being this exposed.
Behind him, Cole paced like a caged dog.
“Good men got hurt and we lost good equipment,” Cole snarled, slamming a hand against the concrete wall. “She didn’t even have to lift a damn finger—just opened a gate.”
“No,” Tomasz replied, flicking ash off the ledge. “She sent a message. That wasn’t defense. That was her signature. She’s not protecting something. She’s hunting.”
Cole flinched, just slightly. Tomasz noticed.
“She’s not waiting for us to come. She’s daring us.” Tomasz turned away from the night. “You want to beat her? Stop acting like a predator.”
Cole’s voice was quieter now. “Then what do we do?”
“We stop acting like hunters,” Tomasz muttered, flicking the cigarette over the edge. “And become ghosts.”
Anika —
She rinsed blood from Tango’s fur, fingers practiced but gentle. The red-furred Cane Corso stood still, one ear twitching at the sound of footsteps behind them.
“She’s okay,” Nikolai said, watching her.
“I know,” Her voice was sharp. Controlled.
“You didn’t send them all,” he observed.
She met his eyes. “Would you have?”
He didn’t answer.
Zulu paced the kennel’s open doorway like a shadow with teeth.
“We let them think they’ve seen the worst of me,” Anika said. “That’s the trap.”
“And when they bring hell to your gate?” he asked.
She stood, brushing blood from her hands onto a towel. “That’s when I show them what hell really looks like.”
He held her gaze. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Neither are you.”
Later at the Diner
The flickering neon sign buzzed like it might short-circuit. Anika leaned against the booth’s window, her eyes scanning each vehicle that passed.
“This place smells like burnt grease and regret,” she muttered.
Across from her, Nikolai stirred his coffee — black, bitter, untouched.
“It’s neutral ground,” he said. “The anonymous contact chose it.”
“That’s what bothers me. Anyone asking for a meet without a name is a trap ninety-nine percent of the time.”
“And the other one percent?”
“Still a trap. Just better bait.”
They’d been waiting nearly thirty minutes. No show. No message. Just that prickling instinct crawling along her spine.
Nikolai’s men were posted outside. Anika had the estate feed streaming on her wristband. Nothing amiss. Not yet.
But her gut was tight. Wrong. Off.
Nikolai stood the same instant she did. Instinct, sharp and mirrored.
They moved toward the exit without speaking.
The air outside was heavier. Electric.
Nikolai’s eyes flicked toward his SUV—then narrowed.
“Move!” he barked, grabbing her waist and hurling her back against the diner’s brick wall.
The blast ripped the night apart.
Heat slammed her lungs. Glass rained like knives. The shockwave crushed her shoulder into brick — and she felt the bandaged wound tear wide open, fire lancing down her arm.
Flames swallowed the SUV. Metal screamed. Windows shattered.
Nikolai’s body covered hers, one arm locked around her waist, the other shielding her head. Shrapnel bit into him instead of her.
Her ears rang. Her vision blurred. Pain burned sharp through her shoulder, sticky warmth spreading fast beneath the bandage.
When she opened her eyes, Nikolai was looking down at her, blood streaking his jaw, his ruined shirt clinging in tatters.
She exhaled shakily. “Your shirt’s toast.”
He smirked through the haze. “Shame. That was my favorite.”
“You still haven’t gotten the last one back from me.”
His grin deepened despite the blood and smoke. “You said you liked me shirtless.”
“I do.”
Then—he kissed her.
No hesitation. No caution.
It was fire and adrenaline, ash and hunger. A collision of two people who didn’t know how to be soft but needed each other anyway.
When he pulled back, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the haze of smoke and sirens.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she whispered, though her shoulder throbbed and blood seeped hot beneath her shirt. “You?”
His voice was low, frayed. “Not sure.”
Two of his men sprinted into view, guns drawn, flanking the smoking crater where the SUV had been.
Nikolai and Anika didn’t resist when they were swept into a second vehicle—glass still tangled in her braid, his blood smeared across her shirt.
The ride back was silent except for his men barking updates over comms. Anika pressed against Nikolai’s side, his hand heavy over hers. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Something had shifted.
Back at the Estate
Havoc and India greeted the vehicle at the gate like sentries, hackles raised, snarling until Anika rolled the window down and gave a single word: “Pace.” (Peace.)
The dogs settled.
Inside, the house was dim, the fire still low in the hearth. Nikolai dropped his ruined shirt in her bathroom without a word, blood trailing down his back.
“Sit,” she ordered.
He didn’t move. His gaze was locked on her shoulder — the dark stain spreading fast through the fabric of her shirt.
“Anika,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You’re bleeding.”
She waved it off, already reaching for gauze. “It’s nothing. Just ripped it open again.”
He stepped in front of her, blocking the cabinet, towering close enough that the heat of him pressed into her space. “You’re dripping blood across the floor, and you think I’ll sit like a good boy while you patch me up?”
Her jaw tightened. “I told you, I can handle it.”
His hand came up, not rough, but immovable as steel, gripping her wrist. “Not tonight. Not after that blast. You want me to let you keep fighting? Then you let me look at that shoulder.”
Her defiance sparked — it always did. But the room swayed just enough when she tried to pull free, and he caught the flicker in her eyes.
He softened his grip, thumb brushing her skin. “You bleed out, there is no war. No revenge. No wolves at your back. Just me burying you. And I won’t do that.”
The words cracked something in her. She hated the truth in them. Hated the way her throat tightened.
Finally, she exhaled through her teeth and yanked her shirt over her head, revealing the angry wound, edges torn and soaked through with fresh crimson.
Nikolai’s jaw clenched, but his hands were steady as he reached for the antiseptic. “Good girl,” he murmured.
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t push it.”
But she didn’t stop him when his fingers brushed her skin, careful and deliberate, as he began to clean and bandage her wound.