CHAPTER SEVEN
Imani
We move through the shadows like ghosts, every footstep calculated to avoid detection.
Brick matches my pace perfectly, his larger frame somehow managing to be silent, even with his large size.
The man moves like a predator—controlled, efficient, deadly.
Behind us, flashlight beams sweep the darkness as our hunters spread out to search the surrounding area.
"There." Brick points to a narrow gap between two buildings. "We can lose them in the residential district."
But as we approach the gap, gunfire erupts from the rooftops above.
Muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness as bullets spark off concrete walls around us.
"Snipers!" I shout, pressing myself against the nearest wall.
Brick is already moving, his gun coming up to return fire at the rooftop positions.
His shots are precise, controlled bursts that force the snipers to take cover.
"We need to get off the street," he says, reloading with practiced efficiency. "They've got overwatch on all the main escape routes."
I scan our surroundings, looking for options.
The alley is a killing field now, with elevated positions providing perfect fields of fire.
But there—a drainage tunnel, barely visible in the shadows beneath a concrete overpass.
"Storm drain," I say, pointing to the tunnel entrance. "It connects to the city's underground system."
More gunfire erupts, this time from ground level as foot teams close in on our position.
We're caught in a crossfire between rooftop snipers and advancing assault teams.
"Go!" Brick shouts, laying down covering fire as I sprint toward the drainage tunnel. "I'll be right behind you!"
I reach the tunnel entrance and turn back to see Brick fighting with at least three assailants at once.
He moves like a machine, dropping targets with ruthless efficiency.
But as he turns to follow me, a sniper's bullet catches him high on the left shoulder, spinning him around and sending him stumbling.
"Brick!" I scream, starting back toward him.
"Stay back!" he growls, clutching his shoulder as blood seeps between his fingers.
But he's still moving, still fighting, using his good arm to return fire while backing toward the tunnel.
A second bullet grazes his ribs, opening up his previous wound.
Now there's blood soaking through his shirt on both sides, but he keeps moving, keeps shooting, keeps protecting me even as his own life bleeds away.
He reaches the tunnel entrance and practically falls through, his face pale with blood loss but his eyes still fierce.
I help him deeper into the tunnel where we'll have some cover. "Jesus, you're hit bad."
"I'll live," he grunts, though the amount of blood suggests otherwise. "We need to keep moving."
"Like hell," I reply firmly. "You're bleeding out. Sit down and let me look at it."
For once, he doesn't argue.
Maybe because he's too weak from losing blood, or maybe because he recognizes the medical authority in my voice.
Either way, he slumps against the tunnel wall while I assess his injuries.
The shoulder wound is clean—through and through, missing the major arteries.
But the bullet that reopened his ribs has torn the previous stitches and created a much larger wound.
Blood flows freely, soaking his shirt and pooling on the tunnel floor.
"Medical kit," I say, already reaching for his bag. "I need to stop this bleeding before you go into shock."
My hands shake slightly as I prepare the supplies, but my training takes over.
"This is going to hurt," I warn, cleaning the wound with antiseptic.
He grits his teeth but doesn't make a sound as I work.
The tunnel around us echoes with distant shouts and gunfire as our pursuers search for our escape route, but my entire world has narrowed to the man bleeding in my hands.
"Why?" I ask as I suture the worst of the damage. "Why did you do that? You could have been killed."
"Couldn't let them hurt you," he says simply, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
The casual way he says it—like my life is worth more than his own—does something to my chest, makes it tight with emotions.
My hands are steady even though his words went straight to my heart. "You barely know me."
"I know enough." His amber eyes find mine in the dim light filtering through the tunnel entrance. "I know you're brave and smart and stronger than you realize. I know you taste like sin and salvation all at once. And I know I'd rather die than see you hurt."
The honesty in his voice, the raw emotion beneath him, breaks something loose inside me.
This man—this beautiful, dangerous, impossibly loyal man—nearly died protecting me.
And not because it's his job, but because I matter to him.
"Brick," I breathe, my hands stilling on his bandages.
"Finish fixing me up first," he says with a weak smile. "Then we can talk about whatever's happening between us."
I finish his medical treatment in silence, hyper-aware of every place our skin touches, every breath he takes, every flutter of his pulse under my fingers.
By the time I finish, the immediate bleeding has stopped, but he's still pale from blood loss.
I secure the last bandage. "Better?"
"Much," he replies, though I can see the pain he's hiding. "Thanks, doc."
The simple endearment shouldn't affect me as much as it does, but something about the way he says it—with such warmth and trust—makes my heart race.
We're sitting close together in the narrow tunnel, his blood on my hands, the sound of our pursuers growing distant.
The adrenaline from the fight is fading, replaced by something else entirely.
"Imani," he says softly, his good hand coming up to cup my face.
I lean into his touch, closing my eyes at the gentle contact.
When I open them again, I see everything I've been trying to deny reflected in his gaze—desire, tenderness, possession.
"This changes things," I whisper.
"Yeah," he agrees. "It does."
I should pull away.
I should remember that we're still being hunted, still in danger, still operating under impossible circumstances. But when he looks at me like that—like I'm something precious and perfect and his—nothing else seems to matter.
I lean forward and kiss him, soft and careful of his injuries.
He responds immediately, his good arm coming around my waist to pull me closer.
"Are you sure?" he asks against my lips, his voice rough with want and pain.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," I reply honestly.
Brick makes me feel seen, valued, protected—not as Mateo Torres's daughter or a cartel asset, but as a woman worth fighting for.
His mouth finds mine again, hungrier this time, and I lose myself in the taste and heat of him.
My hands slide over his chest, careful of his injuries but needing to touch, to reassure myself he's alive and whole and mine.
"Not here," he says, breaking away with visible effort. "You deserve better than a drainage tunnel."
"I don't care where we are," I tell him truthfully. "I just need you."
Something in my voice makes his eyes darken with desire.
His thumb traces my lower lip, and I catch it gently between my teeth, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him.
"Imani," he warns, his voice strained.
"What?" I ask innocently, though there's nothing innocent about the way I'm looking at him.
Instead of answering, he threads his fingers through my hair and pulls me into another kiss, this one deeper and more demanding.
I can taste his need, his restraint cracking under the pressure of everything we've been through together.
My hands find the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath to touch warm skin and hard muscle.
He hisses at the contact, whether from his injuries or desire, I'm not sure.
"Careful," he breathes. "Don't want to start bleeding again."
"Then let me take care of you," I whisper, my lips finding the pulse point at his throat.
He groans, a sound that goes straight through me like liquid fire.
His good hand fists in my hair as I trail soft kisses along his jawline, down his neck, careful to avoid his bandaged shoulder.
"This is crazy," he says, even as his body responds to my touch.
"Everything about this situation is crazy," I reply, pulling back to look at him. "But this—us—this is the first thing that's felt real since this nightmare started."
The truth of that statement hangs between us.
"I've wanted this since the moment I saw you," he admits, his thumb stroking along my cheekbone. "Even when I was trying to convince myself it was just the job."
"It stopped being just a job for me too," I confess. "You make me feel things I didn't know I was capable of feeling."
The admission costs me something—a piece of the armor I've worn for so long I'd forgotten what it felt like to be without it.
But with Brick, I don't need armor. I can just be myself.
He seems to understand the significance of my words because his expression goes tender.
When he kisses me this time, it's with a gentleness that brings tears to my eyes.
"I've got you," he whispers against my lips. "Whatever happens, I've got you."
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I believe it.
This man who barely knows me has committed himself to my protection—not just physically, but emotionally.
He sees me, values me, wants me for who I am rather than what I represent.
It opens something inside me, releases feelings I've kept locked away for years.
When I kiss him back, I put everything into it—all my gratitude, my desire, my growing feelings for this impossible man who's turned my world upside down.
We lose ourselves in each other here in the darkness, the danger outside forgotten as we discover this new connection between us.
His hands map my body with care, every touch sending sparks through my nervous system.
When I touch him in return, he responds with an intensity that makes me feel powerful and feminine and utterly desired.
We're careful of his injuries, turning the limitations into an opportunity for slow exploration rather than desperate coupling.
Every kiss is savored, every caress deliberate and meaningful.
It's unlike anything I've ever experienced—not just physical gratification, but emotional connection, two souls finding solace in each other.
"Let me see you," Brick murmurs against my throat, his voice rough with need.
I’m worried about his injuries, but his good hand moves, sliding beneath my shirt to trace the curve of my waist.
I shiver at his touch, my body responding instantly to the heat in his amber eyes. "Your wounds?—"
"Are worth it," he interrupts, capturing my mouth in a kiss that steals my breath. "Every drop of blood was worth it to keep you safe."
The protectiveness in his voice undoes me.
I straddle him carefully, mindful of his bandaged ribs, and his sharp intake of breath has nothing to do with pain.
His hand tangles in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss until I'm drowning in him.
"Imani," he groans when I rock against him, feeling exactly how much he wants this. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Not on my watch," I whisper, nipping at his lower lip. "I just put you back together. I'm not letting you go anywhere."
His laugh is dark and full of promise. "Bossy little thing, aren't you?"
"Someone has to be," I breathe, trailing kisses along his jaw. "Since you seem determined to throw yourself in front of bullets for me."
His hand slides up my back, pulling me closer until there's no space between us. "I'd do it again," he says simply, and the rawness in his voice making my heart race. "In a heartbeat."
I kiss him then, pouring everything I can't say into the connection between us.
I undo his buckle and free his hard cock, sinking onto him in one fluid motion.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice strained as I move above him, careful not to put pressure on his wounds. "Just like that, baby."
He responds with just as much need as I have, his touch demanding, treating me like something precious and desired all at once.
I don’t stop until we’re both falling over the edge.
I don’t know if it’s the danger of what we’re doing, or if this is because our connection is undeniable, but I’ll take it.
"When we get out of here," he promises against my lips, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, "I'm going to worship every inch of you properly. Somewhere with a bed and all the time in the world."
The images his words conjure make me tremble. "I'll hold you to that."
"Good," he growls, claiming my mouth again in a kiss that promises everything and delivers just enough to leave me aching for more.
"That was..." I start, then trail off, unable to find the right words.
"Yeah," he agrees, understanding what I can't articulate.
We lie there in silence, the reality of our situation temporarily held at bay by the afterglow of what we've just shared.
For these few precious moments, we're not a cartel princess and her protector—we're just two people who've found something beautiful together.
But eventually, the sound of distant voices reminds us that we can't stay here forever.
Our hunters are still out there, still searching for us, still trying to get me.
"We should move," Brick says reluctantly, though he makes no immediate effort to release me.
"I know," I reply, but I don't move either.
Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.