Page 16 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

Oliver

T he second I read Emery’s message, I was moving.

“Viktor’s here,” I barked to River and Cyclone as I sprinted to the truck. “She’s locked in the panic room. Let’s move.”

We tore down the coastal road, tires screeching as we hit the gate. The compound lights were off—Tag nowhere in sight.

Damn it.

I shoved the truck into park and was out the door before the engine stopped humming. Cyclone took the back. River flanked left. We moved in silence, weapons drawn, years of training pulsing through every step.

I kicked open the front door.

The house was still.

Too still.

I motioned forward—cleared the hallway, the kitchen, the living room.

Then I heard it.

A creak on the stairs.

Viktor.

He turned the corner, gun raised.

Too late.

Crack.

My shot hit his shoulder, spinning him into the wall. He grunted, dropped his weapon, and tried to run.

River was on him in two seconds, pinning him with a knee to the neck and a pistol to the base of his skull.

“You’re done,” I growled.

Cyclone cuffed him. “He had a communications unit. Someone was listening in.”

“We’ll trace it later,” River said. “Get to her.”

I was already gone.

I ran for the panic room and hit the release code on the panel.

The door slid open—and there she was.

Knife in hand, eyes blazing.

Alive.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer.

She dropped the knife and launched at me.

Her arms wrapped around my neck, legs around my waist, and I caught her without thinking—like she belonged there.

She buried her face in my shoulder. “I thought I was going to have to kill him myself.”

I huffed a rough laugh. “Would’ve liked to see that.”

She pulled back to look at me, her breath uneven. “I was scared.”

“I know.”

“But not just because of him.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Because I didn’t know if I’d get to see you again.”

Her words hit deeper than I expected.

And something in me cracked wide open.

I cupped her face, gently brushing my thumb over the bruise on her cheek. “I swear to you—I’ll always come back. Always.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shy away.

Her lips parted.

And then she kissed me.

Hard. Desperate. Alive.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t tentative.

It was a collision—of fear, adrenaline, and need.

I pressed her back against the wall, lips crashing over hers, hand tangled in her hair, her breath mixing with mine like it belonged there.

She pulled me closer, nails gripping my shirt, as if daring me to stop.

I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Because this woman—this fighter, this survivor—wasn’t just under my skin anymore.

She was in my blood.

And I’d burn down the world to keep her safe.