Page 31

31

KENDRA

I 'm straining so hard against the restraints that my wrists are slick with blood, the metal biting into flesh with every frantic twist. The gag in my mouth has turned damp with saliva and tears, but the only sound I can manage is a muffled, animal keening as I watch the chaos unfold.

The warehouse is being consumed. Flames lick up the sides of wooden crates, dance along oil-stained concrete. I can already feel the heat changing the air, making it heavy, making it hurt. Black smoke rolls across the ceiling, thickening with each passing second.

But I barely register any of it. My entire world has narrowed to Enzo's body on the floor, the growing pool of crimson beneath him. His gray shirt is soaked through, darker where the bullet tore him open.

Please. Please don't die. Not like this.

My lungs burn from the smoke, from screaming against fabric that won't let sound escape. Tears streak down my face, cutting clean lines through the grime. I've never felt so utterly helpless, so completely trapped. The chains rattle again as I thrash, the sound lost beneath the roar of spreading flames.

And then—movement.

Enzo's fingers twitch. His broad shoulders tense. An agonized sound escapes him, raw and primal, as he presses his palm against the wound in his abdomen. Blood seeps through his fingers, a startling crimson against his olive skin.

His steel-gray eyes open, finding mine immediately through the growing haze. Something flickers in them—recognition, determination, rage—before he braces his free hand against the concrete.

Don't. You can't. Stay down.

But Enzo Rossi has never been a man who stays down.

His jaw clenches so tightly I can see the muscle flex as he hauls himself upward, fighting gravity, fighting blood loss, fighting death itself. He makes it to his knees first, swaying dangerously, face contorted in a grimace that reveals how much this costs him. His breath comes in harsh, ragged pants, visible even through the thickening air.

I sob against the gag, shaking my head violently. He needs to save himself. He needs to get out. A support beam crashes somewhere behind him, sending sparks cascading like demonic fireflies.

But Enzo's eyes never leave mine. There's a terrible, beautiful focus in them—cold and clear despite everything. He gets one foot planted, then pushes upward with a strangled sound that's half growl, half groan. Blood drips onto the concrete, marking his path as he staggers toward me, one hand still pressed tight against his wound.

Each step looks impossible. His face is ashen beneath his tan, jaw locked, shoulders curled inward around the pain. But his eyes—God, his eyes remain sharp, calculating, refusing to dim. This is the man who deals in calculated violence and careful control, channeling every ounce of that legendary will into simply not falling.

He stumbles once, catching himself against a crate that's already starting to burn. The contact draws a hiss of pain from him, but he pushes off again, closing the distance between us with the relentless determination of a force of nature.

I'm crying openly now, chest heaving with sobs that can't escape past the gag. The smoke burns my eyes, my throat, my lungs, but all I can focus on is this impossible man, bleeding out and burning up, who refuses to leave me behind.

Finally, Enzo reaches me. His hands, slick with his own blood, fumble at the gag first. The fabric tears away, leaving me gasping and coughing, gulping down air that tastes of smoke and fear.

"I never—" My voice breaks, raw from screaming into fabric that wouldn't let sound escape. My eyes burn from more than just the acrid smoke filling the warehouse. "I never betrayed you."

His jaw tightens, the muscle there flexing under his skin. Despite the blood loss, despite the flames licking closer, his steel-gray eyes lock onto mine with absolute clarity. His fingers work at the restraints, trembling but determined, leaving crimson smears across my wrists.

"I know."

Two simple words, spoken with such certainty that something breaks open inside me. He knew. He always knew. Even when Zenon tried to poison him against me, tried to make him believe I'd turned on him.

The second my wrists come free, I'm throwing my arms around him, mindful of his wound but desperate for the contact. He's heavy against me, all muscle and barely contained pain. I position myself under his shoulder, taking his weight as best I can.

"I got you," I whisper, feeling his blood soak into my clothes. "We're getting out of here."

He growls in pain, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine, but he lets me hold him up as we stumble toward what I pray is an exit. Each step is a battle. The floor beneath us grows hotter, the smoke thicker, making every breath a struggle.

"Left," he manages, voice rough as gravel. "There's a... service door."

I adjust our direction, half-carrying this impossible man who should be dead or unconscious by now. Instead, he's fighting, each labored breath a testament to sheer willpower. The Enzo I first met—cold, calculating, dangerous—is still there in the rigid set of his jaw, in the merciless determination pushing him forward.

A support beam crashes behind us, showering our backs with sparks. I bite back a scream, pushing us faster despite the way Enzo's breathing grows more ragged with every step.

"Stay with me," I demand, my voice stronger than I feel. "Don't you dare check out on me now, Rossi."

His lips quirk in what might have been a smile under different circumstances. "Wouldn't... dream of it."

The service door appears through the smoke—a rectangle of darker gray in a world gone orange and black. My heart leaps, but we still have to cross fifteen feet of burning warehouse to reach it.

"Almost there," I say, more to myself than to him.

Enzo straightens slightly beside me, summoning reserves from somewhere impossible. "Run," he grits out. "When I say."

I tighten my grip around his waist. "I'm not letting go of you."

"Wasn't asking you to."

We brace ourselves as a wall of heat rolls toward us. The fire has found something new to devour, and the roar is deafening now. Enzo's eyes narrow, calculating even now, waiting for the exact moment.

"Now!" he commands.

We lunge forward together, a desperate, stumbling sprint. The distance to the door seems to stretch impossibly. My lungs scream for clean air. Enzo's weight grows heavier with each step.

The door handle is hot against my palm as I reach for it, twisting with desperate strength. It gives way, but beyond is only darkness—whether salvation or another trap, I can't tell.

Flames rush toward us, hungry and merciless, as we fall forward.