The first hooded figure lunged.
Elena moved before thought, the knife flashing silver as it cut through rain and fabric. The man's grunt was swallowed by the storm as he staggered back, clutching his arm. Two more surged forward, heavier, faster.
Behind her, Damian cursed. The sound of a gun cocking split the night. A shot rang out—clean, precise. One attacker collapsed, a spray of water rising as his body hit a puddle.
Elena spun, rage flaring. "Still hiding behind bullets, Damian?"
"Still charging at men twice your size with nothing but a butter knife?" he shot back, firing again.
The retort she wanted died on her tongue as a third man's fist slammed into her side. Pain blossomed, white-hot. She stumbled, but Damian was there—too close, steadying her, his arm a solid wall against the chaos.
"I don't need your help," she snapped, twisting free.
"Then try not to bleed all over me," he muttered, shoving her behind a stack of trash bins as another volley of bullets sparked against brick.
She hated that she remembered the exact timbre of his voice when he was serious. Hated more that it still made her pulse quicken.
The alley was narrowing, the men herding them deliberately. This wasn't random. This was a hunt.
Elena's mind raced, analyzing their formation, the rhythm of their movements. Syndicate-trained. Not amateurs. Her stomach churned. She had hoped the symbols on the body were a warning. But this—this was a claim.
One man barked into a radio. The words were muffled, but Elena caught enough: Target confirmed. Don't let them out.
Them. Not her. Them.
Her blood ran cold.
She turned to Damian, who was reloading with practiced ease. His jaw was set, rain dripping from his lashes, that cursed smile finally gone.
"They're here for you too," she said.
His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. "Guess we're popular."
"Don't joke."
"Wasn't planning to." He paused, then added, softer, "Stay close."
She almost laughed—bitter, sharp. "Last time I stayed close to you, Damian, I nearly died."
A shadow loomed. Damian shoved her down just as a blade sliced the air where her throat had been. They hit the ground hard, his weight pinning her, his breath ragged against her ear.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled—their tangled limbs, the rain hammering down, the memory of a thousand nights neither of them spoke of.
Then Elena drove her knife up, straight into the attacker's gut. Hot blood spilled across her hands, shocking in its warmth. The man collapsed, and Damian rolled them both free.
Panting, soaked, spattered in red and rain, Elena locked eyes with him.
"Still think I should've walked away?" she hissed.
Damian's mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite regret. "No. Now I think we run."
Another wave of footsteps thundered closer. More coming. Too many.
And for the first time in years, Elena realized she and Damian had no choice but to survive together.