His eyes flare with sudden, violent rage. Not at me. At the world. At the fact that he cannot put me in a glass box and keep me safe.
"No one’s ever going to touch you." The vow is a blood oath. "I’ll tear this city apart before a single piece of shrapnel reaches you. I hit that armory tonight to clear the first threat from your perimeter. I will do it again tomorrow. I will do it every day for the rest of my life."
"That’s exactly my point." I drop the card onto the metal counter. The plastic clatters loudly. "I spent my entire adult life running from the crossfire. The Bellantis nearly destroyed my clinic. I rebuilt it with my own two hands. I created a controlled life. I wake at six. Coffee at six-fifteen. I treat patients. I go home. I control every variable because the last time I let one in, the building beside mine went up in flames and took half my life with it."
Nico's grip on my hips tightens painfully. He hates the words. He hates the trauma he cannot erase. He sees the warehouse floor. He sees the empty chair at his father's table. We are two people irreparably broken by the same monsters.
"You want to leave." His voice drops an octave. It is not a question. It is a fatalistic conclusion. He expects everyone to leave.
I grab his face in both of my hands. My palms press against his rough, scraped cheeks. I force his eyes to meet mine.
"Are you stupid, or just temporarily concussed?" I snap.
He blinks. He is genuinely stunned.
"I just told you I hate variables." I drag my thumbs across his high cheekbones. "I hate chaos. I hate the mafia. I hate the fact that you own a building specifically designed to withstand a siege."
He waits. His lungs expand against my stomach.
"But I hate the idea of walking out that door without you even more." The truth spills out of me, raw and terrifying. "You lied to me about why they came to my clinic. You tried to manage me. You tried to keep me in the dark because you thought I would run if I saw the monster in the closet."
"You should run." He whispers the words against my wrist. The confession costs him everything. His instinct screams to hold me, but his twisted sense of honor demands he give me an out.
"I don't run." I glare at him fiercely. "I rebuilt my clinic on the same block after the fire. I stared down the insurance companies. I stared down the arson investigators. Do you really think a few tattoos and a bad attitude are going to scare me away?"
A dangerous heat sparks in the depths of his brown eyes, roaring back to life, fueled by my stubborn refusal to act like a victim.
"You gave me this keycard." I pick the plastic up off the counter. I tap it against his bare chest, right over his heart. "This means I get real access. No more lies of omission. No more locking me in a safehouse while you go play Batman with live ammunition. If I am in this, Nico, I am all in. I'm not a hidden hostage. I'm your partner."
He surges upward, the metal stool scraping violently against the linoleum. He catches my waist, lifting me off the floor until mytoes dangle in the air. He presses my spine firmly against the edge of the refrigerator, trapping my frame completely.
"Partner." He tests the word like a foreign concept. He has been alone in this for two decades. The family points him at a target, and he fires. He has never had someone stand beside him in the trenches.
"Yes. Partner." I brace my hands on his wide shoulders. "Which means you tell me everything. You tell me what affects my clinic, my safety, and the people around me. No more half-truths."
A rough laugh tears out of him. He buries his face in the crook of my neck. His hot breath skates across my collarbone, sending a shiver down my spine.
"You're a terrifying woman, Priya Sharma." He presses an open-mouthed kiss against my pulse point.
"I'm a woman who knows her worth." I slide my fingers into his dust-coated hair. The soft strands contrast with the harshness of his existence. "You chose me. You brought me into this. Now you have to deal with the consequences."
He lifts his head. The darkness in his eyes shifts into primal devotion. He looks at me like I am the only fixed point in his chaotic universe. He looks at me like a man who just found his religion.
"I accept the consequences." He crowds me closer. The ridge of his arousal presses against my stomach through the shirt. He makes no effort to hide his need. He wants me to feel exactly what this conversation is doing to his restraint.
"Good." I swallow. My professional focus slips under the heat of his body. "Now, show me the war room."
He freezes. "What?"
"The war room." I point down the hall toward the glowing blue monitors. "You’ve been tracking half the South Side from this apartment. I want to see it. I want to see the armory you destroyed. I want to see the board."
Nico studies my face for a long, agonizing moment. He is searching for hesitation. He is waiting for the trauma to resurface. He finds nothing but pure, unadulterated resolve.
He sets me down on the floor. His hands slide slowly down my arms, a reluctant retreat. He takes a step back, opening the path to his inner sanctum.
"Follow me."
I walk behind him. He is no longer dragging me along. He is inviting me in. We cross the threshold into the fortified secondary bedroom.
