The Russian stronghold loomed ahead like a jagged scar across the landscape. Its stone walls were weathered and menacing, shadowed under the crescent moon that struggled to pierce the thick fog. Every instinct screamed danger, every rustle of leaves felt like a warning. I clutched Dante’s arm as we approached, the heat from his body a lifeline in the chill night. My pulse pounded in sync with his, a dangerous rhythm that made my skin tingle.

“Stay close,” he whispered, his voice low, husky, commanding. “Every second counts. One mistake, and we’re done.”

I nodded, gripping my knife, muscles coiled with tension. Fear pulsed through me, but underneath it, desire...