For the first time in years, I actually gape.
I stare at him like he just slapped me, unsure whether I want to scream, laugh, or throw the gun at the floor and punch him in the mouth. “You’re deranged,” I breathe.
Leonardo smiles wider and leans in, pressing his forehead to mine like a benediction made of sin, and whispers, “So are you.”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just breathes against my forehead like the god of a ruined cathedral and murmurs, almost fond, “Go bring that boy back to life. And call me when he’s alive again.”
I don’t respond. I simply step back, turn, and leave—no goodbye, no salute, no thank-you for the bloodbath that just unfolded in his foyer.
I shove the gun back into the waistband of my jeans and storm out of the Bellini estate without drawing another breath. The guards flinch as I pass; no one speaks. The heavy doors groan when I throw them open again, as though they’ve just witnessed a curse spoken aloud and are still reeling from the echo.
The second I reach the car, I drive like I want the road to split open beneath me. I redline the engine the entire way back to the compound, every turn taken tighter than the last, every heartbeat pounding louder than the roar of the exhaust. The tires are still smoking when I slam the car into park. I don’t bother shutting the door—I launch out, boots hitting pavement hard, keys left dangling in the ignition, the engine wheezing like it’s grateful to be spared another second of abuse.
I don’t look at anyone. Not the guards, not the rookies loitering near the main hall, not even Misha leaning against the wall like he’s waiting to ask if someone’s dead. I don’t stop. I don’t breathe. I beeline straight for Kai’s container with tunnel vision so sharp it could split bone. Every step echoes—loud, final—through the compound’s corridors.
I shoulder the door open with enough force to rattle the hinges. “KAI!” I bark, voice already shredded, jaw clenched so tight something pops near my temple. “Talk to me. Right now.”
The light inside is harsh and clinical, the kind of sterile white that makes everything look more fragile than it already is. Julian is still on the bed—still pale, still sweating, still too still.
Finn sits beside him, one hand wrapped tight around Jules’ wrist like it’s a fucking lifeline. He looks up when I enter—bloodshot eyes, shaking shoulders, lips moving as though he’s been whispering to him this whole time.
Kai doesn’t flinch, doesn’t snap, doesn’t sigh. He simply lifts his head from his notes, syringe still in hand, and meets my stare like a wall made of knives. “Vitals stabilized,” he says flatly. “He’s not convulsing anymore. Pulse is stronger. Fever’s dropping, but he’s still not awake.”
I move to the side of the bed, drop to one knee, and grip Julian’s jaw with my whole hand, staring at his mouth like I can force it to breathe right if I will it hard enough. Hislips are cracked, his pulse fluttering weakly under my thumb, but he’s still in there. I know he is.
I press my forehead to his. “I’m here, halo,” I whisper. “I brought the gun. I brought the fucking sky if you want it. Just wake up.”
His breath stutters.
Hours pass—the kind that bleed, the kind that burn, the kind that stretch time so thin it feels like I’ve been pinning this bed to the earth for centuries. I haven’t left his side once. My knees went numb sometime after the first hour; my spine feels carved from stone, rigid and aching, but I don’t move. I can’t. Not until he does.
Kai checks in every twenty minutes, expression unreadable, movements efficient as always, yet the tension carved into his jaw speaks louder than any of the numbers he scribbles on his chart. Finn is asleep in the chair now, arms crossed tight over his chest, one boot propped against the bed frame like he’s personally guarding the gates of hell. The rest of the compound has fallen unnaturally quiet—no music, no shouting, no bloodthirsty laughter echoing down the halls. They know. Something happened. Something cracked open in the dark and hasn’t sealed shut yet.
And Julian—
He’s still. Too still.
His chest rises in shallow, fragile pulls. His pulse twitches beneath the thin skin of his throat, faint but stubborn. I watch it. Count it. Recount it obsessively. Every flutter keeps me breathing; every second he doesn’t wake feels like a blade dragged slow across the base of my neck. I press my hand to his ribs—light pressure, just enough to feel the warmth seeping through his skin, just enough to remind myself he’s still here, still fighting somewhere beneath the surface.
And then he lets out a sound, small and cracked. His lips part around it, raw and sticky, like the syllables have to claw their way up from some deep, dark place inside him.
I freeze. Every muscle locks tight. My heart slams into my sternum so hard it feels like it’s trying to break free and reach him first.
His voice comes out soft, shredded, slurred—barely more than a rasp dragged over broken glass. “…did I win the game or just your pants?”
I forget how to breathe.
His mouth twitches, barely a grin, barely there—but the sound of him, that fucking tone, that bratty, delirious, absolutely feral-flirty slur? It breaks something in me.
I choke out a breath that’s half laugh, half sob, and drop my head into the pillow beside his, fingers curling tight into his damp hair. “You little shit,” I whisper against his temple, voice cracking on every syllable. “You almost died.”
His lashes flicker—eyes not open yet, not really—but he leans into me just a fraction, just enough to close the smallest distance between us. “Mmm,” he breathes, voice syrupy and lost somewhere deep. “Did you cry?”
I laugh—low, hoarse, ruined. “Shut up.”
“Did you shoot someone?”
“Almost.”
