Page 19 of The Enforcer (Damn! #2)
SUNLIGHT SPILLED into the penthouse like poured gold, stretching long and warm across the pale hardwood floors and catching on the sharp lines of steel and glass.
The light touched everything, quiet, lovingly, as if the world had been scrubbed clean overnight and returned without sharp edges.
It warmed his bare feet. Brushed his damp skin.
For just a moment, he felt it, stillness pressing close, like the city itself was holding its breath.
And Lily was caught in the middle of it.
She stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, barefoot in his robe, a mug of coffee cupped in both hands.
Her hair was mussed, wild from sleep or sex or both, and the oversized black silk clung to her in folds.
The light captured her like a spotlight, gilding the angles of her face, painting warmth along her bare legs, her throat, the soft curve where her shoulder met her collarbone.
She looked like something carved out of peace. Like sin wrapped in quiet.
For a moment, Zane didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
He just stood there, fresh from the shower, a towel slung low around his hips, water trailing down the hard lines of his chest and abdomen.
The morning light caught in the droplets clinging to his skin, and for a second, he was aware of the contrast. Him, raw and scarred and real, forged in violence, staring at something so peaceful it looked borrowed from another life.
Not his. Not a life that lasted. And for a breath, just one, he forgot about everything else.
The danger. The past. Even the ache in his side.
All he saw was her, wrapped in sunlight, and the world tilted slightly on its axis, like gravity had re-centered itself around her.
His breath hitched. A step forward tugged at the stitches on his side, but he didn’t notice.
All that existed in that moment was her.
He hadn’t expected this, this calm. This moment. This woman. Not in his bed, not in his home, not in his life. But there she was, and everything in him twisted toward her like instinct.
He opened his mouth, maybe to say her name, maybe to break the spell, when a flicker of motion cut across the glass, a shift in light that didn’t belong. Then his gaze dropped.
And everything in him snapped to ice.
A red dot bloomed at the center of her chest.
Laser.
“Lily,” he said, voice low. Sharp.
She started to turn, confused, innocent.
But he was already moving.
Zane lunged, barreling across the room as instinct took over.
The thought hadn’t even fully formed, but his body knew, move or lose her.
He tackled her hard, twisting mid-air to take the brunt of the fall.
The mug flew from her hands and hit the hardwood with a sharp crack, shattering on impact.
Hot coffee splashed across the floor in wide, steaming arcs, the sound of ceramic splinters swallowed by the gunshot that followed.
The glass behind them exploded.
The shot came through like a thunderclap, screaming past where her head had just been and searing across his side with brutal precision.
He grunted, the impact stealing his breath, pain roaring through his side like fire eating its way through half-healed flesh.
Son of a bitch. Not again. The same fucking place.
He could feel the heat of the wound, the slickness of blood already starting to pool beneath the towel.
It was like the bullet had found him by memory, right back to the same place he’d been hit before, a phantom wound ripped open again like some kind of cosmic reminder.
His body knew this pain. It had worn the pattern too many times.
But this one hit different. Because this time, he hadn’t just taken a bullet for a target.
He’d taken it for the only thing in his world that mattered.
And the part of him that survived off scars knew, he’d take it again.
Or maybe fate just had a twisted sense of humor.
They hit the floor hard, Zane landing on top of her with a bone-jarring thud.
His arms locked around her, one hand curled protectively around the back of her head, the other bracing her against the force of the fall.
The impact knocked the air from both of them, but he didn’t move.
Couldn’t. His body was a shield, trembling with pain, bleeding onto the hardwood, but he kept her covered with every ounce of strength he had left.
She tried to push up, her breath coming in sharp little gasps, but he tightened his hold, pressing her firmly back against the floor.
“Stay down,” he growled, voice ragged. It wasn’t just a command, it was protection laced with pain, a warning wrapped in desperation. She froze beneath him, understanding in an instant that he wasn’t ready to lose her. Not now. Not ever.
Outside, the skyline fractured, glass shimmering from the broken window, sirens in the distance, sunlight flashing off mirrored towers like fire on steel.
A sharp gust of wind rushed in through the jagged opening, swirling through the penthouse like a thief, tugging at the edges of curtains and scattering shards across the floor.
Motion blurred past the rooftop across the street, a flicker, a shadow.
The sniper was already gone. But the message had landed.
The war had just arrived on Zane Dante’s doorstep.
His mind spun as he kept his body low, eyes scanning the broken window, the angles of light, the rooftops beyond. Red dots were for movies. No real sniper telegraphed a kill. So why the laser? Why the shot?
It hadn’t been sloppy. It had been calculated. A warning? A threat? A message?
Or maybe it had been all three.
He shifted, biting down on the pain searing through his side as he checked Lily beneath him.
His hands moved with efficiency, no hesitation in the sweep of his gaze or the press of his palm to her side.
Every instinct screamed to get her to safety, but he had to know, had to see with his own eyes that she wasn’t bleeding, that she hadn’t taken a shard of glass or a stray sliver of ceramic.
That she was whole. Still his to protect.
“Are you hit?”
She shook her head, wide-eyed, lips parting like she meant to speak but couldn’t get past the rush of shock.
Zane felt her fingers flex against his chest, not to push him away, but to confirm he was solid, alive, shielding her from the storm they hadn’t seen coming.
She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t shaking. But he felt the tension in her body.
“Any glass? The mug?” he pressed, brushing steady, assessing fingers over her arms, her sides, her legs. No blood. No slice. Just shaken.
“Zane—”
He exhaled sharply, more pain than relief, and yanked the towel from around his hips, pressing the folded fabric hard against the open wound. Blood was already soaking through, hot and slick, and still he couldn’t stop thinking, what if she’d been hit? What if he hadn’t moved fast enough?
The thought of losing her gutted him, but it was the other thought, the one that had clawed into his chest since the first time he’d taken her, that made him savage with fear. What if she was carrying his child? They’d have stolen two lives. Which meant... Whoever had taken that shot was dead.
Dead!
He pressed the towel harder against his side, trying to shove the thought down.
He couldn’t. Not when there was even the slightest chance she was carrying his child, something fragile and unspeakably theirs.
Not when that bullet had come within inches of erasing a future he hadn’t even let himself hope for.
Not when they’d come that close to wiping both of them out in a single breath. The possibility ate at him like fire.
“We need to move,” he ground out.
He hauled her up with one arm, keeping low, dragging her out of the line of fire in case another sniper was waiting, tracking.
His grip remained firm, uncompromising, blood slipping between his fingers as he held her close, chest to her back, moving fast and low.
Every instinct screamed to shield her, to get her somewhere with walls, shadows, barriers between her and whoever had just tried to end her.
He didn’t stop until they were deep in the hallway, away from the glass, away from the light, away from the line of sight that had nearly stolen everything he hadn’t even admitted he wanted yet.
Only when they were hidden in shadow did he stop and lean against the wall, breath shallow, muscles tight.
Whoever fired that shot hadn’t missed. Not completely.
They’d made a point.
Lily Mirabella, soon to be Dante, was officially marked.
Zane didn’t waste time. He backed her into the bathroom, locked the door, and pulled open the cabinet where he kept the trauma kit. His hands were slick with blood, but steady, moving with brutal efficiency as he laid the kit open across the marble counter.
She stood near the wall, pale but composed, her eyes locked on him. He didn’t look up as he grabbed gauze, pressed it hard into his side, and gritted his teeth. No hesitation. No weakness. Just focus.
Then he ripped the towel away and braced himself, his jaw locked tight, breath held.
The air was cool against his blood-slick skin, and for a moment, he just stood there, trapped in the pain, the fury, the sheer violent need to survive it.
Not for himself. For her. For the thing they hadn’t dared name.
For the chance, however slim, that she might be carrying something more.
He gripped the edge of the counter, steadying himself, then reached for the rubbing alcohol and suture kit.
He cleaned the wound quickly, not because it didn’t matter, but because he had to staunch the blood flow. Then he picked up the needle and pressed it to his skin.