The world had turned into fire and smoke, and I was barely keeping my feet under me. The warehouse behind us was still smoldering, jagged shards of glass scattered across the pavement like frozen fire. Every alarm, every shout, every echo of gunfire throbbed in my chest. My legs felt like lead, my lungs burning, but Dante didn’t slow. He didn’t even glance back—his hand clamped around my wrist like iron, dragging me forward, and I didn’t even try to resist.

We ducked behind a collapsed wall, the concrete rubble cutting into my palms as I clutched the edge for balance. Bullets hissed over us, snapping against metal and stone. The smell of gunpowder stung my eyes, and I gagged, covering my mouth. My entire body trembled—not just from fear, but from the way Dante’s arm pressed against my back, holding me flush to him as if I were a shield, as if he couldn’t risk letting me fall even a fraction of an inch behind him.

His voice cut through the chaos, low and urgent. “Stay close. Don’t look at me. Don’t—don’t think. Move!”

I swallowed hard, trying to obey, though I could feel every heartbeat of his body against mine. There was something maddening in the heat radiating off him, in the solid weight of him holding me like a prize, a responsibility, a thing too precious to risk. I hated it. I hated him. But I couldn’t stop noticing.

The Russian soldiers were relentless. Their silhouettes flickered across the smoke, advancing with methodical aggression. Shots rang out, and I flinched as one man went down near us, collapsing with a grotesque thud. Dante’s hand moved over my waist, steadying me again. His fingers brushed against my hip, firm and controlling, and I jerked, pretending to stumble accidentally against the rubble to mask my reaction.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and the look he shot over his shoulder was enough to make my blood run hotter than the fire around us. I pressed my lips together, forcing myself to focus. Not him. Not now.

We turned a corner, and I nearly screamed. One of the Russians had gotten ahead of us, his rifle aimed straight at us. Dante didn’t hesitate. He yanked me down behind a dumpster as two sharp cracks rang out. I felt the impact through the concrete beneath us, felt the air rush past my ears, and then heard the thud of a body hitting the ground. He had taken the shot himself, the recoil rattling him, but he was alive, and I was alive.

I tried to breathe, tried to focus, but my mind was a storm. Every time he touched me—just holding me, guiding me, shielding me—I felt something dangerous coil in my chest. I hated that I wanted it.

“Keep moving,” he growled.

We sprinted across the alley, the night alive with firelight and gunfire. He pushed me ahead, then followed with fluid precision, his body covering mine, leading the way through shadows and debris. I stumbled over a metal grate, nearly twisting my ankle, and his hand shot out, gripping my wrist, pulling me against him. Our bodies pressed together, tight, his chest hard against my back.

“Careful,” he muttered, almost in a whisper meant for no one else. But I heard it. Felt it. My pulse skyrocketed, and I forced myself to focus on the ground, on the rubble, on survival. Not him. Not the heat radiating off him. Not the way his scent—smoke, leather, a dark, intoxicating musk—filled my senses.

The Russians were closing in. I could hear their voices shouting my name now, guttural and full of threat. My stomach dropped. They weren’t just here for Dante—they were here for me.

“Why me?” I hissed under my breath, panic tangling with disbelief.

He didn’t answer at first. He only shifted me behind him as another shot rang out, sparks dancing off the dumpster. “Because you’re mine,” he finally said, voice low, dangerous, possessive.

I froze. My chest heaved. Mine. The word burned into me, and I hated it. Hated the way it made me feel alive. Hated the way it made my skin flush under his hand. Hated that even in terror, I wanted it.

“Dante—” I started, but a scream tore through the alley, and we had no time for words.

He dragged me behind a chain-link fence, throwing himself in front of me as bullets tore through the metal. Sparks flew, and one ricocheted close enough to singe my hair. I yelped, and his arm tightened around me, pulling me closer than was safe, his body a wall of muscle and intent.

I pressed into him, breathless, trembling, and tried not to notice the curve of his jaw, the sharp line of his cheek, the way his chest expanded against mine with each measured breath. But I couldn’t stop. My mind screamed at me to focus, to survive, but every instinct betrayed me. Every instinct was drawn to him.

Another Russian shouted behind us. Dante spun, gun raised, and fired. The shots were precise, controlled, terrifyingly lethal. One of them went down instantly, a thud that made my stomach turn. My head snapped back instinctively, hitting his shoulder. He cursed under his breath, keeping me pressed tight.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, and I obeyed, though my body quivered, pressed flush to him, trapped in a mixture of terror and something else I couldn’t name.

We darted through the alley, turning sharply into a service entrance Dante had clearly known existed. Inside, the compound was semi-ruined, corridors dark, debris everywhere. Smoke filtered in through broken windows, and the acrid smell made my eyes water.

He shoved me behind a support beam, then surveyed the hall with a predator’s intensity. “Stay,” he commanded.

I crouched low, heart hammering in my chest, ears ringing. He moved through the hall with lethal grace, taking down the remaining Russians with quiet, precise efficiency. I couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop imagining his body moving like that in the night, lethal and commanding, and my pulse surged with a shameful, dangerous awareness.

The hallway fell silent after a final shot. Dante returned to me, brushing dust and blood from my shoulder. His hand lingered a second too long, and I could feel the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of my clothes.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, low, almost intimate.

“I—” I tried to form words, but they caught in my throat.

His hand moved to my chin, lifting my face. His eyes were stormy, dangerous, impossibly close. “Do you trust me?”

I could barely breathe. My entire body said yes, even as my mind screamed no. “I—I don’t know,” I whispered, breathless.

He studied me, jaw tight, then leaned just slightly closer. My breath caught as the tip of his nose brushed mine. Just a whisper away. My skin burned, heat pooling between terror and something else entirely.

But then—another shout. The Russians weren’t finished. One of them had survived, tracking our escape, and they were shouting my name again.

Dante’s eyes flared. He dropped any pretense, grabbing me, slinging me over his shoulder effortlessly. I gasped in shock, almost dropping my weaponless arms around him. “Dante! Put me down!”

“Not a chance,” he snapped. “You move, you die.”

I couldn’t argue. I couldn’t fight. I was pressed against his back, heart hammering against his chest, body flush with his, and every instinct screamed with a confusing mix of fear and… longing.

He charged through the smoke and debris, dodging fire, taking down any threat without hesitation. I clung to him, terrified and unwillingly aware of how impossibly strong and dominant he was.

Finally, we burst into an abandoned alley behind the main street. He set me down, checking my face for injuries, his hands lingering a fraction too long. “You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

My chest heaved. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a raw, vulnerable ache behind. I wanted to recoil from him, to retreat, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t stop the pulse of heat that raced through me every time he looked at me like that—dangerous, possessive, claiming.

Before I could speak, he grabbed my arm again. “We move. Now. Safehouse. Then you’re not leaving my sight again.”

My stomach dropped. Safehouse. Again. I wanted to protest. I wanted to fight. But my body, my mind, everything about me was caught between fear and desire, caught between wanting to survive and wanting him—some unnameable, terrifying part of me.

And as we disappeared into the shadows, I realized the Russians weren’t just after Dante—they were after me.

And Dante… Dante was the only thing keeping me alive.

For better or worse, for all the danger and heat between us, I was entirely, irrevocably in his world now.