Viktor fired twice, each shot measured, and two more men hit the concrete. Blood painted the tiles with dark intention. The smoke stung my eyes and burned my nose. Sweat slicked my palms. In the edge of my vision Viktor moved like a shadow shifting to shield me. He fired, tucked his body, moved. I answered with teeth and bone. A man tried to rise, saw Viktor level his gun, and stopped halfway like a marionette with its strings cut.
Another attacker charged, this one reckless and wild. I took his arm and twisted until he dropped the pistol. It skittered across the floor. Without thinking I grabbed it, felt its cold weight and the danger of it, and used it as a bludgeon. The butt cracked across a temple. He went down.
Viktor's breath hit my ear as he moved past me, his hand briefly skimming my lower back to push me forward. That small contact was all. It was enough. We were a single unit: his precision and my improvisation, his fire and my fists. We cleaned a path forward, leaving a wake of motion and the quiet gasping of men who had underestimated us.
“Left!” A shout from deeper in the corridor. New movement. Reinforcements. Professionals sniffing out where the prince had fled.
“Cover!” Viktor barked. He planted both feet, weapon shoulder-high, and began a steady sweep. He fired through an open doorway and a man crumpled like a rag. The sound of a rifle bite tore through the corridor and our pace shifted. We had to move faster.
I ducked into a side room and found a collapsed stage prop, a painted pillar. I grabbed it like a staff and swung, driving the wood into a man's knee. The crack of bone was ugly and perfect. He tried to grab me and I slipped, palms finding his throat, pressure until his eyes rolled. He went still.
Viktor was on me then, moving with me, guiding me through exits and into the maze of service tunnels. His boot found mine under a pipe and he used the touch to slide me around a corner, his body briefly covering mine. We moved in tight, breathing the same air. No words. Only the economy of touch that made so much more sense than language.
“How many are left?” I asked when we had a moment, voice low and rough.
“Enough,” Viktor said. He did not give numbers. Numbers were useless in the middle of a slaughter. He took the next corner with the calculated calm of a man who had rehearsed this geometry more than once.
We ducked into a utility closet and slammed the metal door, breathing heavy in sudden, shared quiet. I pressed my back to the cold metal and tried to feel the pieces of myself that stayed whole in violence. Viktor lowered his gun and looked at me. The red light made his eyes silver. He had a cut at his temple I had not seen take shape. A thin line of blood glinted there. His hands were shaking just a fraction.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Da,” he lied because of course he lied as always. Then his mouth tightened and he added, “Almost.”
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to curl my fingers in his hair and pull his head down and kiss him like the world was ending and maybe it was. Instead I tore off a strip of my cuff and tied it around his wound. My hands were steady. He did not flinch. He watched me with a wariness that made my chest ache.
“We should move,” he said, voice steady again.
We did not wait for permission. We pushed the door just enough to peek. The corridor was a chaos of bodies and smoke, the emergency lights making everything look like a bad dream. We timed it between two sweeps of enemy fire and bolted. Viktor firing to clear the way, me taking out anyone who made the mistake of looking at me wrong. I flipped off a railing, landed on my feet, and used a stunned guard as a shield while Viktor used a pistol grip to pound the man's head. The sound was the sound of survival.
We hit a door that led to a freight passage. It opened into the alley behind the opera house. Cold air slammed into us, clean and full of rain. For an instant we were exposed; camera flashes from the red carpet area lit us up like a tableau. A cluster of attackers hung back by the loading bays as if waiting for us to fall into a trap.
Viktor did not hesitate. He took cover behind a delivery crate, fingers working the magazine with a mechanic's patience, eyes scanning. I moved into the open and baited, throwing my weight forward. They fired. Viktor drew a bead and answered, single shots that found seams between shoulder and jacket, between threat and life. Men went down. One staggered toward me, hands flailing, and I met him with a forearm across his throat and a knee into his chin. He choked and slid off my hands.
Sirens wailed closer. Voices echoed down the corridor. The world was catching up, dragging us back to reality, to consequences, to all the lies we'd have to tell about what happened here.
“Come on. Let's get out of here before they trap us in interviews.”
Viktor followed, gun still drawn, eyes still scanning shadows. Always protecting. Always watching.
Always there.
We burstthrough the loading dock doors into cool night air that tasted like rain and smoke. Emergency vehicles blocked the street, lights flashing red and blue against wet pavement. Officers swarmed the building, securing perimeters, establishing control.
And standing in the middle of it all, perfectly composed despite the chaos, was Marcel.
He saw us immediately. Smiled.
“Your Highness!” He called out, loud enough to draw attention. “Thank god you're safe!”
Press cameras swiveled toward us like weapons. Flashbulbs exploded. A dozen lenses captured the moment: Viktor's hand on my back, protective and possessive. Blood streaking both our faces. The way we stood too close, like we couldn't help it.
Evidence. Ammunition. Scandal waiting to be born.
Marcel's smile widened, satisfied and sharp.
I felt Viktor tense beside me. Felt him start to pull away, to create distance, to rebuild the walls we'd torn down tonight.
I grabbed his wrist. Held him there.
