Smoke still lingered in the halls long after the last gunfire faded. The estate's walls, once silent and immovable, now bore the scars of war—shattered glass, bullet-pocked stone, and the coppery tang of blood in the air. Men moved like shadows, sweeping rooms, dragging bodies, muttering clipped reports into radios.
Lottie stood in the corridor, the pistol still heavy in her hands. Her knuckles ached from clutching it too tightly, her arms trembling though she fought to keep them steady. The silence pressed harder than the battle had, louder than the rifles had cracked.
Her first kill clung to her skin like smoke.
The man's eyes—wide, startled, human—kept flashing in her mind, no matter how much she blinked. He hadn't been a faceless shadow in the chaos. He had been real. And she had ended him.
Gabe's hand closed over the weapon, pulling it gently but firmly from her grip. His voice, when it came, was low, steady, but edged with something raw.
"Enough."
She resisted for half a heartbeat, then let go. The pistol slipped from her hand into his, a weight leaving her palm but not her chest.
"You shouldn't have been there," he continued, tucking the weapon into the back of his belt. His eyes burned into hers, anger and relief tangled together. "I told you to stay inside."
Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven. "And what—wait in the dark while they tore through the gates? While you bled outside? I couldn't—" Her voice cracked, rage and fear fighting for space. "I won't just sit and watch anymore, Gabe. I won't."
For a long moment he said nothing. His jaw worked, his chest rose and fell, and the storm in his gaze softened just enough to let her see what he hid. Fear. Not of Vitale. Not of death. But of losing her.
"You killed a man," he said finally, softer now. "Do you understand what that means? What it does to you?"
Her throat tightened. She wanted to deny it, to claim she was unshaken. But the truth clawed too close to the surface. Her voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper.
"It means I survived."
Something flickered in his expression—pride, grief, desire, she couldn't tell. His hand brushed her arm, the briefest contact, but enough to ground her trembling body.
"You're stronger than you know," he murmured. "But strength has a cost. And I'd give anything to keep you from paying it."
She opened her mouth to respond, but Marco appeared at the end of the corridor, his shirt bloodied, his face carved in lines of exhaustion.
"South gate is clear," he reported, voice gravelly. "Bodies are being burned before Vitale can reclaim them. But this…" His gaze slid to Lottie, then back to Gabe. "…wasn't just an assault. It was a probe. He wanted to see how deep she's willing to go."
Lottie's stomach turned. The kill. Her presence on the balcony. Vitale had seen her. Felt her.
"Then he got his answer," Gabe said, voice like iron.
Marco's eyes narrowed. "And now he'll push harder. He knows she's in play. He'll try to break her before she becomes what he fears."
Silence thickened. Lottie clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms. She was sick of being spoken of like she wasn't there, like she was a weapon to be measured.
"I'm not breaking," she said, her voice stronger than she expected. "Not for him. Not for anyone."
Gabe's eyes caught hers, something dangerous and unshakable sparking there. He nodded once, as though sealing a vow.
Marco studied her a moment longer, then exhaled. "Fine. But if she's fighting, she trains. No more hiding, no more stumbling blind. We sharpen her, or Vitale uses her."
The decision hung between them like a blade.
Lottie's pulse thundered, fear and defiance colliding. Training. Killing again. Becoming something she wasn't sure she wanted to be. But when she looked at Gabe—blood on his knuckles, weariness in his eyes, devotion etched into every line of him—her choice became clear.
"Then teach me," she said. "Make me ready."
⸻
The estate settled into a brittle quiet by dawn. Fires smoldered where trucks had burned, guards rotated watch, and the halls still smelled faintly of smoke. But inside Gabe's private study, the war outside felt momentarily distant.
Lottie sat curled in one of the leather chairs, knees drawn close, staring into the cold fireplace. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, her clothes smudged with dirt and ash. She felt hollow, like the fight had taken more than blood—it had scraped at her soul.
Gabe entered without a sound, his presence filling the room before his voice did. He carried two glasses, amber liquid swirling inside, and set one gently in front of her.
"Drink," he said, settling into the chair across from hers.
She picked it up hesitantly. The burn of whiskey hit her tongue, hot and sharp, sliding down her throat like fire. She coughed once, but the warmth settled in her chest, dulling the ache.
"Does it ever get easier?" she asked after a long silence.
His gaze lingered on the glass in his hand. "No. It just gets quieter."
She studied him, the faint scars on his knuckles, the shadows beneath his eyes. For all his steel, he carried ghosts too.
"I saw you out there," she whispered. "The way you fight. Like death doesn't touch you."
He met her eyes then, his voice low, rough. "It touches me every day. I just don't let it take what matters."
The words sank deep, pulling something tight in her chest. Before she could stop herself, she reached across the small space between them, her fingers brushing his.
He didn't pull away. His hand turned, his grip closing over hers, strong and warm.
"Gabe…"
Her voice broke on his name. All the fear, all the adrenaline, all the fire that had carried her through the night crashed into the truth she had been avoiding. She didn't just want his protection. She wanted him—raw, flawed, furious, and unrelenting.
He rose suddenly, the glass forgotten on the table, and pulled her to her feet. The air between them snapped tight, heavy with everything unspoken.
"You scare the hell out of me," he said, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath ragged. "You walk into fire without thinking, you tear down walls I've built for years, and I can't—" His voice cracked, rare and unguarded. "I can't lose you, Lottie."
Her hand curled against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "Then don't," she whispered.
The kiss that followed wasn't like the one stolen in the heat of battle. This one was slower, deeper, a desperate claiming in the quiet ruins of the night. His hands framed her face, hers fisted in his shirt, and the world narrowed until there was nothing but fire and breath and the fragile safety of his arms.
When they finally broke apart, both breathless, both trembling, the first light of dawn had begun to filter through the windows.
"Whatever comes," she said softly, "we face it together."
He held her tighter, as if her words could vanish if he let go. "Together."
⸻
By morning, the estate stirred again. Men limped through halls, weapons were cleaned, defenses rebuilt. But beneath the routine, tension simmered. Vitale would return. Stronger. Smarter. And now, with eyes fixed on Lottie.
In the courtyard, Marco trained recruits, his barked orders sharp as gunfire. Lottie stood at the edge, watching, her body still sore, her hands still faintly trembling. But when Marco caught her eye, he didn't soften.
"You said you want to fight," he called across the space. "Then step in."
Gabe appeared at her side, his gaze steady, unreadable. He didn't stop her. He only said one thing.
"Every choice you make now writes the war inside you. Be sure of it."
Her chest rose with a sharp breath. She stepped forward.
The fire inside her hadn't burned out. It had only begun to spread.