The warehouse door buckled. Metal screamed against metal as fists and boots pounded it in rhythm.
Elena tightened her grip on her knife. Every instinct told her to run, but there was nowhere left to go. Trapped. Cornered. Just like the syndicate wanted.
Damian crouched by the windows, checking sightlines through the cracks in the boards. His pistol glinted in the dim light. "Four, maybe five outside. Could be more circling."
"Wonderful," Elena muttered. "Outnumbered, outgunned, and I'm stuck with you."
"Don't pretend you're not thrilled," he shot back, smirking.
She glared. "If by thrilled you mean nauseous—yes."
Before he could reply, the lock gave a final shriek and snapped. The door slammed inward, shadows spilling into the warehouse.
They came fast—hooded, coordinated, weapons ready. Syndicate-trained, no doubt. Elena's stomach clenched, but her body moved on instinct. She ducked low, slashing one man across the thigh. He howled, collapsing, and she pivoted behind a stack of crates.
Gunfire cracked beside her. Damian dropped another attacker cleanly. For a heartbeat, she hated how steady he was under fire, how his movements were both ruthless and precise. Damn him for being good at this.
"Two more coming left!" he shouted.
"I see them!" She hurled a broken glass bottle, shattering it into one man's face before sinking her knife into the other's ribs. Blood spattered across her sleeve, hot and sticky.
The fight was chaos—shouts, footsteps, rain dripping through the ceiling, the stink of sweat and gunpowder. Somewhere in the blur, Elena felt Damian's back press against hers. Solid. Unyielding. For one dangerous second, their movements synced—covering blind spots, striking in rhythm, like the years hadn't passed.
Her chest tightened, fury and longing tangling like barbed wire.
The last attacker lunged, swinging a length of pipe. Elena ducked, too slow. The impact grazed her temple, white pain exploding across her vision. She staggered—then Damian's arm shot out, yanking her against him as his gun fired point-blank. The man dropped.
Silence crashed in. Just the storm outside, the creak of the warehouse, their ragged breathing.
Elena pulled back, shoving him away. "Don't touch me."
"You're welcome," Damian said, voice low, eyes unreadable.
She pressed a hand to her throbbing temple. Anger steadied her more than balance. "You always were good at leaving a mess for me to clean up."
He flinched—just barely—but she saw it.
Before she could press the blade deeper with words, a phone buzzed. Not hers. Not his.
On one of the dead men, a burner phone lit up. The screen glowed with a single message:
"Target confirmed. Both alive. Hold position."
Elena's stomach dropped.
"They're not here to kill us," she whispered. "They're here to keep us."
Damian's gaze flicked to hers, hard and sharp. For once, no grin, no mask. Just the same sick realization.
They weren't prey.
They were prisoners on the run.