The morning air was sharp, heavy with the metallic tang of gun oil and stone dust.
Lottie woke before dawn this time, her body still aching but her mind restless, alive. She pushed herself from bed despite the protests of her bruised muscles, dressing in silence, choosing one of the plain training outfits Marco had insisted she keep at hand.
By the time she reached the courtyard, Gabe was already there. He hadn't noticed her yet—his back was to her, shoulders tense, blade in hand. The first light of morning carved him into something more myth than man, a soldier sculpted in shadow.
She watched for a moment, caught between awe and something deeper. He moved like water poured over stone—fluid yet unyielding, every strike of his blade a promise of survival. But beneath the precision, she saw the weight too—the burden of command, of carrying more than just his own life.
When she stepped forward, gravel crunching underfoot, he turned sharply, blade half-raised before lowering it. His eyes narrowed. "You should be resting."
She lifted her chin, unwilling to be cowed. "And miss the sunrise training ritual? Not a chance."
His mouth twitched, though he quickly masked it. "You're relentless."
"Good," she shot back, though her voice softened after a beat. "Because so are you."
For once, he didn't argue. He simply handed her a practice blade, heavier than yesterday's.
"Again," he said.
⸻
By midmorning, the courtyard rang with the clash of steel. Lottie's arms screamed with fatigue, sweat dampening her shirt, but she didn't stop. Gabe's attacks were faster today, his defenses sharper, as though testing how far he could push her before she broke.
She stumbled, caught herself, lunged again.
When her blade locked against his in a jarring clash, she held, teeth gritted, refusing to back down. He leaned close, their faces inches apart, his breath ragged, his eyes blazing.
"Why?" he demanded, voice low, furious, intimate. "Why keep pushing past the pain?"
Her grip tightened. "Because pain reminds me I'm alive. And because if I don't fight with you—" her voice cracked, but she steadied it, "—I'll lose you."
The words landed between them like a spark on dry tinder. For a moment, the world narrowed to the locked blades, their quickened breaths, and the tension strung taut as steel wire.
Then he shoved her back, disarming her with a sharp twist. Her weapon clattered to the ground.
"Enough," he snapped, though the anger in his voice was tangled with something more dangerous—fear.
Lottie bent, scooping up the blade, her chest heaving. "Not until you admit it."
His eyes flicked to hers. "Admit what?"
"That you're afraid."
The courtyard fell silent except for their breathing. He looked away first, jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might crack.
"Fear keeps me sharp," he said at last. "It doesn't get spoken. Not here."
But she'd seen it. The truth beneath the soldier's armor. And she wasn't about to forget it.
⸻
Later, the estate gathered in the war room. Maps sprawled across the central table, red markers indicating past strikes, blue marking their defenses. Marco was already present, leaning over the plans, while half a dozen of Gabe's men stood at attention.
Lottie lingered at the doorway, uncertain. This wasn't her world—not fully. Not yet.
But Gabe looked up, saw her, and without hesitation, gestured her forward.
"Stay close," he murmured as she approached his side.
Marco raised a brow, but said nothing.
The briefing was precise, brutal. Vitale's forces had shifted patterns in the last forty-eight hours, smaller squads moving like predators testing fences. A shipment of weapons had gone missing from one of Gabe's caches. A source whispered of Vitale drawing alliances with other families.
"We can't just keep reacting," Marco said, his tone clipped. "He's bleeding us slowly, watching where we weaken."
"And if we strike first?" one of the men asked.
Gabe shook his head. "Not yet. Vitale wants me impatient. Wants me reckless. We'll wait until he shows more of his hand."
Lottie studied the map, her gaze tracing the red and blue lines. A thought pressed against her mind, hesitant but insistent.
"What if he's not trying to break the walls?" she said softly.
All eyes turned toward her. Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she didn't stop. "What if he's trying to break you? To make you doubt yourself, to fight battles on his terms? The breaches, the raids—they're not the war. They're distractions. He wants to unbalance you before he truly strikes."
Silence stretched. Marco frowned, arms crossed.
But Gabe… Gabe's expression shifted.
"She's right," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's exactly what I'd do."
He looked at Lottie then, something fierce and raw in his gaze. For once, she wasn't just the woman he was protecting. She was part of the war.
⸻
Far away, in the dim light of his safehouse, Vitale sipped black coffee and studied a different set of maps.
"She's adapting faster than expected," one of his lieutenants said, sliding a photo across the table. Grainy, taken from a distance—but clear enough. Lottie in the courtyard, blade in hand, facing Gabe.
Vitale's smile was thin, sharp. "Good. Let her think she's a warrior. The deeper she steps into his world, the easier it will be to tear her apart when the time comes."
He tapped the photo once, a promise written in his eyes. "I'll make her watch him fall. And then I'll make her choose whether to burn or bow."
⸻
That night, Lottie found Gabe on the balcony outside the war room. The city lights stretched endless in the distance, cold and untouchable.
"You believed me today," she said quietly.
He didn't look at her. "Because you saw what I refused to."
She stepped closer, her hand brushing against his on the railing. "Then believe this too: you're not alone anymore. You don't have to carry this war by yourself."
His silence was long, but when he finally turned, the guardedness in his face cracked just enough.
"You'll be the death of me," he whispered, the same words he'd once spat in anger.
Lottie's breath caught, her chest tightening, but she didn't pull away. "Or the reason you live."
The distance between them vanished, their lips meeting in a kiss that burned hot against the cold night air. This wasn't desperation, wasn't a stolen spark in chaos. It was choice. Fierce, defiant, and theirs.
For a moment, there was no war, no Vitale, no maps or strategies. Only fire and shadow, colliding and unbreakable.
⸻
But in the silence that followed, Gabe's phone buzzed on the table inside. A single message, unmarked.
You can't protect what burns from within.
The war was far from over. And the shadows were closing in.