Page 41

A scream tears through the air, breaking through my own terror.

And it —it’s a sound so savage, so guttural, it drowns out everything.

Even my own cries.

Even the pain burning through my shoulder where the knife just sliced into me.

Even the weight of him, of Daniel fucking Matheson— El Tigre’s manager, my stalker, soon-to-be dead man —pressing me into the filthy floor.

And then, suddenly, he’s gone.

Ripped away from me like trash caught in a hurricane.

“Lucy! Sweetheart! Don’t look,” he says.

It’s my father’s voice. Sharp. Commanding. Choked with rage.

“I got her! Handle that!” he shouts to someone.

And then I see him.

Balor.

Eyes wild. Feral.

His mismatched stare glowing like fire and ice under the flickering warehouse lights.

There is blood on his knuckles.

And the look on his face?

It's the kind of rage that only exists when a man sees the love of his life hurt and trembling.

His gaze flashes to me.

To the torn fabric of my dress.

To the bruises and dirt marring my skin.

To the blood soaking the cloth my father presses against my wound.

Something breaks in him.

And I see it.

It’s like something unlocks inside of him.

Something dark and powerful, reserved for the most desperate people.

God, I never loved him more than I do right now.

With slow, deliberate steps, Balor turns to where Daniel fucking Matheson writhes on the ground, already a mess of bruises and broken ribs.

Balor bends.

Picks up the knife.

The knife the bastard used on me.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t yell.

He acts.

And I watch— paralyzed, breathless —as my husband takes that blade and saws through the fucker’s neck.

Bone. Flesh. Sinew.

He goes right through it.

Doesn’t make a sound.

He just cuts and cuts until that bastard’s head rolls free with a sickening, wet thud.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” Balor roars at the end.

His boot crashes into what’s left of the corpse.

Once. Twice. Again.

Then he spits.

Spits on the body like it’s less than dirt.

And then?

He turns.

Back to me.

Blood spatter covers his clothes and hands. His chest heaves with exertion and he drops to his knees like the world just caved in beneath him.

His voice is choked. His face is pale.

Those deadly hands hang limp at his sides— hands that just murdered a man to save me.

“Balor,” I whimper, already pushing against my father’s hold.

He shakes his head, refusing to meet my eyes.

There’s something fractured in him.

Something broken.

“I don’t, I don’t deserve you,” he says hoarsely, like every word hurts.

But I don’t care.

I don’t care about blood or guilt or morality or any of it.

And if that makes me just as crazy, just as unhinged as him?

So be it.

I’d consider myself lucky to be classified as such.

But the real bottom line is this.

I just want him.

I squeeze my father’s hand.

Hard.

Then I run.

Straight to my husband.

I throw myself into him and he catches me like I always knew he would.

“Shhh, don’t you ever say that again,” I whisper. “You came for me. You found me. You saved me.”

Tears are streaming down my face, mixing with blood and sweat and fear, but none of it matters.

Because I’m here.

He’s here.

And this man— my husband, my monster, my salvation —will never let me go.

“I love you so fucking much,” I say against his lips.

And when I kiss him, hard, desperate, tasting salt and metal and sorrow—I know without a doubt, there isn’t anything we can’t do.

We survived this.

More than that?

We burned everything in our path to get here.

The man who hunted me is gone.

The blood has dried.

The screaming has finally stopped.

But the fire?

It’s still in us.

In the background, I hear my father and uncles and cousins— Volkov men with dark eyes and darker secrets —working in grim, efficient silence to erase what happened.

To wipe the location clean.

To dismantle the horror that lived in these walls.

And I don’t give a damn about any of it.

Because everything I want is in my arms.

Everything I need is clutching me like he’ll never let go.

“I’m okay,” I whisper again and again, my voice hoarse but steady.

Balor doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t stop holding me.

But his grip softens— just barely .

His breath starts to even out against my cheek.

Like he believes me.

Like he’s starting to believe this nightmare is finally over.

That I’m still here.

Still his.

Still breathing.

I press my lips to his throat. “I’m here, Balor.”

He groans like it hurts, burying his face in my hair, and I feel the tremble go through him.

This man, this protector, this criminal genius who walked through hell to save me— he's shaking.

“I’m okay,” I say again, louder this time, like I can pull the truth into his bloodstream and anchor him back to earth.

And when he lifts his face to mine— those mismatched eyes wild with love, fury, and disbelief —I know he finally accepts it.

I’m his.

And he’s mine.

“Take me home, Husband,” I whisper.

His jaw clenches, and he nods, voice a growl, a vow, a promise wrapped in blood and ash and aching devotion.

“Anything you want, Wife.”

He lifts me like I weigh nothing and carries me out into the dying night.

The fire might be out, but there is something I will always know.

And it’s our truth.

We’ll never stop burning for each other.