The Next Morning...
Lila woke to fire running under her skin.
Every breath dragged a sting across her ribs, her shoulders throbbed from the bruises where fists had landed, and her right thigh pulsed hot and wet. She shifted slightly—pain exploded there, sharp and merciless.
Her hand shot down, fingertips brushing the torn fabric of her trousers. She hissed. The skin was sticky, damp with blood, and when she dared to glance down, she saw the grazed wound. The bullet hadn't lodged, but it had sliced along her flesh close enough to leave her trembling.
"Putain…" she muttered under her breath, gritting her teeth. "Ça brûle."
(Fuck… It burns.)
For a moment, she lay still in the quiet of her apartment. Morning light was pressing through the curtains, too bright, too calm for what she felt inside. Her body ached like it had been chewed up and spat back out by wolves. Every time she blinked, flashes from the ambush came back—the gloved hands, the knives, the shots tearing the air.
And her own voice, raw in her ears, cold and unrelenting.
She tried to sit up, but her stomach cramped in protest. She leaned against the headboard, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Her mind was sharp despite the haze of pain. She had two choices: pretend she was invincible and bleed out slowly, or admit she needed help.
Her pride almost chose the first. Almost. Until reason won.
Then she remembered Matthieu's face in the alley—the only time she'd seen fear flash through his otherwise cold eyes. He had warned her, told her not to go alone, and she had shoved him off like a shadow she didn't need.
Now? Now she was bleeding into her own sheets.
She cursed again, dragging her phone toward her with trembling fingers. She dialed his number.
It rang once. Twice. Then his voice: rough, alert, too awake for this early hour.
"Oui?"
Yes?
Lila swallowed the knot in her throat. "Matthieu… viens. Et amène des hommes."
Matthieu... come. And bring men.
There was a beat of silence on the line, sharp as a blade. His tone shifted instantly, worry bleeding through the steel.
"Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé? Tu es blessée?"
What happened? Are you hurt?
She closed her eyes, pressing the phone tighter to her ear. "J'ai besoin d'un bandage."
I need bandaging.
"Lila…" his voice dropped, low, dangerous. "J'arrive tout de suite."
Lila... I'm coming immediately.
The call ended.
She let the phone slip from her hand and fell back against the pillows, exhaling through clenched teeth. The room seemed colder suddenly. She hated this—the weakness, the reliance. But she also knew Matthieu. He wouldn't arrive quietly. He'd come like a storm, with men, with eyes scanning every shadow.
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The knock didn't come. The door slammed open instead.
Matthieu entered first, his long coat flaring, a handgun still in his grip, making Lila wonder if he came gripping his gun.
Two men followed behind him, scanning the apartment in silence, before he barked:
"Dehors. Vérifiez tout."
Outside. Check everything.
They obeyed instantly, leaving the two of them alone.
Lila didn't move from the bed. She only watched as Matthieu's sharp eyes landed on her—the blood on her thigh, the bruises across her collarbone, the raw swell at her jaw. His expression shifted, not with pity but with fury. He stood clenching and unclenching his fists.
"Tu ne dis rien. C'est mauvais signe," Lila murmured, her voice dry.
You're not saying anything. That's a bad sign.
He shot her a look that could cut through steel.
"Je garde mes mots, sinon tu n'aimeras pas ce que j'ai à dire."
I'm holding back my words, or you won't like what I have to say.
She let out a short laugh, though it sounded more tired than amused. "Alors dis-les."
Then say them.
He dropped the medical kit onto the coffee table with a dull thud, the sound echoing in the tense silence of the room. "Tu joues avec ta vie, Lila. Encore une fois sans protection. Encore une fois avec cette foutue arrogance."
You're playing with your life, Lila. Once again without protection. Once again with that damn arrogance.
Her jaw tightened, but she didn't argue this time. She was too tired to spar with him, and besides—he wasn't wrong.
"Nom de Dieu…" he muttered, dragging a chair close. "Regarde-toi."
God's name... Look at yourself.
"I'm not dead," she said flatly, pressing her palm harder to the wound.
Matthieu knelt, setting his gun aside. He yanked open the first-aid kit one of his men had dropped on the nightstand. "Pas encore. Mais tu saignes partout."
Not yet. But you're bleeding everywhere.
He pulled out gauze, disinfectant, a syringe of lidocaine. His movements were clipped and precise. Just like his mood.
When he reached for her leg, she stiffened, backing away slightly. "I can do it."
His gaze snapped up, black as flint. "Tais-toi."
Shut up.
He didn't ask again. His hands, scarred from years of violence, were steady as stone as he cleaned the blood from her skin. She hissed when the antiseptic hit, her nails digging into the sheets.
"Tu crois que tu es invincible?" Matthieu's voice was sharp, each word like glass. "Tu sors seule, sans garde. Et maintenant regarde. You look half dead." He deadpans
Do you think you're invincible? You go out alone, without bodyguards. And now look.
"I had work."
"Travail?" His laugh was bitter. "Tu n'es pas médecin avant d'être Rousseau. Ton père—"
Work? You're not a doctor before you're a Rosseau. Your father—.
"Don't," she snapped, voice breaking on the edge. "Don't drag him into this."
For a moment, silence sat heavy between them. Matthieu's jaw tightened. He pressed the gauze harder against her thigh, forcing her to grit her teeth against a groan.
Finally, he spoke again, quieter but sharper still. "Ton père m'a confié sa tigresse. Et je la retrouve presque morte dans son propre lit. Ton père m'a confié la chose la plus précieuse qu'il avait. Et je refuse d'échouer."
All because she refused to listen."
Your father entrusted me with his tigress. And I find her almost dead in her own bed. Your father entrusted me with the most precious thing he had. And I refuse to fail.
Her throat closed. She hated the weight of those words. Hated how they made her feel small.
"I'm not weak," she whispered.
"Alors arrête d'agir comme si tu voulais mourir."
Then stop acting like you want to die.
Lila hissed again as she watched Matthieu resume cleaning the wound on her thigh. The alcohol burned—sharp and merciless.
" Tu veux m'arracher la jambe ou quoi ? "
Are you trying to rip my leg off or what?.
Matthieu didn't even glance up, his expression set in stone as he pressed the gauze firmly against her thigh.
" Si tu voulais que je sois doux, tu aurais dû appeler un médecin. Mais tu m'as appelé, alors tu assumes. "
If you wanted someone gentle,you should have called a doctor. But you called me, so deal with it.
She let out a shaky laugh that quickly dissolved into a wince.
" Tu es vraiment insupportable… "
You're truly unbearable...
Matthieu finally looked at her, his gray eyes softening for just a moment.
" Et toi, tu es vivante. C'est tout ce qui compte. "
And you're alive. That's all that matters.
The words hung between them, heavy. Lila swallowed hard, looking away. The memory of the alley—gunfire, shadows, blood—flashed in her mind, but she forced it down. Her pride didn't allow weakness, but yesterday night… yesterday night, she couldn't deny how close she had come to death.
Her voice was low, almost hesitant.
" Matthieu… je suis désolée pour l'autre jour. Je t'ai parlé comme si tu étais mon ennemi. Mais je sais que tu veux seulement… protéger ce que mon père t'a laissé protéger. "
Matthieu... I'm sorry for the other day. I spoke to you as if you were my enemy. But I know you only want... to protect what my father left you to protect.
Matthieu's jaw clenched. His fingers tightened the bandage around her thigh, finishing with a firm knot. He sat back, glaring at her like she was the most reckless thing he had ever seen.
He finished tying the bandage around her thigh, his hands steady and precise. Then he answered:
"Ton père m'a demandé de veiller sur toi. Mais Lila… même s'il ne l'avait pas fait, je le ferais quand même. Parce que tu es ma famille."
Your father asked me to watch over you. But Lila... even if he hadn't, I would still do it. Because you're my family.
Her chest tightened at the word—family. That was Matthieu: not blood, not bound by duty alone, but tied to her in ways that went beyond loyalty. She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek.
" D'accord. Tu as gagné. J'ai besoin des gardes. Mais… ils restent dehors. "
Fine. You win. I need the guards. But they stay outside.
Matthieu smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
"Tu es vraiment têtue."
You're really stubborn
" Comme toi. "
Like you.
For the first time that night, a fragile peace settled between them.
Before leaving, he paused, his hand on the handle, his back turned to her. His voice was low, almost a growl. "Ne me fais plus jamais courir dans ton sang comme ce soir."
Don't ever make me run through your blood like tonight again.
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.
Lila let herself sink deeper into the couch, the silence of the apartment pressing down on her. Her thigh throbbed with pain, her body ached from exhaustion, but worse than all of it was the weight settling in her chest—the awareness that this war she'd inherited was only beginning. She tilted her head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the taste of iron still on her tongue.
For the first time since returning to France, she allowed herself to admit it: she was afraid. And she didn't know what to do.
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