The docks smelled like salt, diesel, and the faint copper promise of violence long before the first shot cracked the night. We waited in the back of a blacked-out cargo van parked at the turnoff, engine off, windows cracked just enough to let the humid air seep in. Lucien sat beside me on the narrow bench, thigh pressed to mine, Glock resting loose on his knee. Four of his men crouched near the rear doors, silent, geared up, faces painted in shadow.
I hadn't spoken since we left the penthouse. The memory of the range still lived under my skin—his hands guiding mine, his body claiming mine, the way he'd whispered praise against my throat while I came undone. Every time I shifted, the faint ache between my legs reminded me who I belonged to now. The necklace hadn't stopped pulsing since we'd rolled out; it felt like a second heartbeat, faster than my own.
Lucien's voice cut the quiet. "Spotter's on the overpass. Russian. Confirmed."
One of the men nodded. "We've got eyes on him. Suppressed rifle. He's scanning the access road."
Lucien turned to me. "You stay behind me. No heroics. You only move if I'm down."
I met his gaze. "I'm not letting you get shot."
His mouth curved, dark and fond. "That's not your choice tonight."
The radio crackled. "Truck inbound. Two minutes."
Tension snapped tight. Lucien stood, checked his weapon, then reached down and pulled me up with him. His fingers lingered on my wrist, thumb brushing the pulse point under the tracker chain.
"Stay alive," he said softly. "That's an order."
I nodded once.
The truck rumbled past—armored, unmarked, headlights cutting through the fog like knives. Behind it, headlights flared. Two vans. Moretti's crew. Eight men, maybe ten. They moved fast, flanking the truck, weapons up.
Lucien gave the signal.
The first shot came from our side—suppressed, clean. The spotter on the overpass dropped like a stone, rifle clattering down the concrete slope.
Chaos erupted.
Moretti's men opened fire. Bullets pinged off the truck's armor. Lucien's team poured out of the van, moving like shadows with teeth. I followed Lucien, staying low, heart slamming so hard I tasted it.
He moved like he was born in gunfights—smooth, lethal, every step calculated. I kept pace, Glock heavy in my hand, finger off the trigger but ready.
A Moretti soldier broke from cover, charging straight at Lucien, shotgun raised. Time slowed.
I didn't think.
I just acted.
I stepped in front, shoved Lucien sideways with my shoulder, raised my arm, and fired.
The shot caught the man in the chest. He staggered, shotgun booming wide, pellets shredding the air where Lucien's head had been a second earlier. The soldier dropped.
Lucien spun, eyes wide for the first time I'd ever seen. "What the fuck—"
Another burst of gunfire cut him off. I felt the sting before I registered the pain—hot, sharp, tearing across my upper arm. Blood bloomed dark against the black sleeve. I hissed, staggered, but kept my feet.
Lucien's face twisted—rage, fear, something raw and unguarded flashing through those ice-blue eyes.
He moved faster than I could track. Two shots. Two bodies down. Then he was on me, hand clamping over the wound, pressing hard.
"Stay with me," he snarled.
"I'm fine," I gritted out. "It's just a graze."
"Shut up."
He dragged me behind the van, barking orders into his comms. The fight ended almost as fast as it started—Moretti's men scattered or dead, the truck secure, cargo untouched.
Lucien shoved me down onto the bench inside the van, ripping my sleeve open with one hand. Blood soaked through his fingers. His jaw clenched so tight I thought I heard teeth grind.
"You stupid fucking puppy," he hissed. "I told you to stay behind me."
"You were going to die."
"I've been shot before."
"Not on my watch."
He stared at me, chest heaving, blood on his hands—my blood. Something cracked in his expression. Not anger. Not anymore.
He yanked a trauma kit from under the seat, tore open gauze packs with his teeth, pressed them hard against the wound. I sucked in a breath at the pressure.
"Hold still," he ordered.
I did.
His hands shook—just once, barely noticeable. But I saw it. Felt it.
When the bleeding slowed, he wrapped it tight, taped it down, then cupped the back of my neck and pulled me forward until our foreheads touched.
"You don't get to die for me," he whispered, voice rough. "Not yet. Not ever."
I swallowed. "Then don't make me watch you bleed either."
He kissed me then—hard, desperate, tasting of gunpowder and copper and fear. I kissed back just as fiercely, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer like I could fuse us together and make the night forget we'd almost lost each other.
When he pulled away, his eyes were storm-dark, pupils blown.
"You're bleeding for me," he said quietly. "First blood."
I managed a shaky smile. "Worth it."
He pressed his lips to the bandage on my arm, soft, reverent, like a vow.
"Get in the front seat," he told me. "We're going home."
Home.
The word settled in my chest, warm and dangerous.
As the van rolled out, Lucien's hand found mine on the bench between us. He laced our fingers together, blood and all, and didn't let go the entire drive back.
I stared at our joined hands—his strong, mine trembling—and realized something terrifying.
I wasn't just bleeding for him anymore.
I was living for him.
And the scariest part?
I didn't want it any other way.