AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A blur of motion catches my eye. It’s a gunman rounding the crate at an angle I didn't anticipate. In a rush of combat instinct, my fingers tighten on my weapon, but it's too late. He lunges, a hand clamps over mine as he wrenches the gun from my grip. We dive to the ground with our bodies entwined in a desperate struggle for control. His face is close enough that I can see the determination and fear behind his eyes.
His finger finds the trigger, squeezing off a round in wild panic. A hot streak of pain sears up my arm as the bullet grazes flesh, adding fuel to the fury that's been burning within me since this fight commenced. Gritting my teeth against the sharp sting, I snake my arm free and strike him in the throat. It barely fazes him, and we continue to grapple on the cold concrete with each of us battling to gain the upper hand in this lethal dance.
Suddenly, the gunman produces a blade, and he succeeds in stabbing at my side. It's a shallow wound, but searing pain spreads from it like wildfire. With an explosive effort, I seize the moment, twisting his head at an unnatural angle with one decisive motion. His body goes limp as the life is extinguished from his eyes before he even hits the ground. I'm gasping with the copper tang of blood on my tongue when Victor's hand clasps my shoulder.
"Come on," he pants, urgency clear in his voice as he helps me to my feet. He's right. We can't lose momentum. It's the only thing keeping us a heartbeat ahead of the grave.
I'm half running, half stumbling towards the back door, with Victor's hand as my saving grace clamped firmly on my shoulder. As we burst into the damp night air, sirens sing in the distance, a foreboding lullaby for the unclaimed dead we're leaving behind. The cold against my skin feels like a reprieve from the stifling prison of gun smoke and blood.
Without a word, we sprint to the car. My hand fumbles with the handle, slick with blood, as we throw ourselves inside. We're moving before the doors even slam shut, and the tires screech a desperate goodbye to the grave we narrowly avoided.
In the basked sanctuary of the car, Victor rummages through the glove compartment with hurried, shaking hands. He retrieves a first aid kit.
"Fuck!" The word cuts through the air when he applies the gauze to my side, and a hiss of pain escapes my lips before I can reign it in.
"Sorry," he mumbles, his motions growing steadier as he binds the makeshift dressing to my flesh.
The city lights bleed together as we race away, leaving the battlefield behind. On impulse, my phone is in my hand, and I'm barking orders to the loyal few who didn’t join tonight's operation.
"Clean up the warehouse," I spit out, voice edged with adrenaline and pain. "I want it sterile. No trace of us, not a single shell casing." I don't need to see them to know they'll jump into action. The dead can't answer for their crimes, and the living won’t if they can help it.
As we meld into the churning current of the city, the weight of survival settles in. Those Hawthorn bastards will scour the earth to pin us down, but tonight we're ghosts. Unseen, unheard, untouchable. Tonight, we're the wraiths of vengeance, and nothing will lead back to us. Not a bullet and not a body.
My pulse hammers in my ears, matching the thrum of the engine as we weave through the city streets. Every shadow, every alleyway whispers of the retribution I’m owed. Retribution isn't a hope. It's an inevitability that I'll forge with fire and blood.
"They'll pay," I murmur the words carving themselves into the night. I look over at Victor, my fierce resolve reflected in his nod. "We'll hit them where it hurts," I vow, a dangerous promise that thrills with the certainty of a storm on the horizon. Tonight, we embrace the dark, but tomorrow, we become the blade that carves our justice into the heart of the Hawthorn empire.
27
CHAPTER 27
Isabella
I balance the tray of steaming food carefully as I push the door open with my shoulder, stepping into the dimly lit room where Damien has been resting. The clink of the porcelain bowls barely cuts through the heavy silence. For three days, I've cleaned his wounds and changed bandages. I remember vividly the chill that flowed through me when he burst through the door with Victor shadowing him, both of them looking like they'd clawed their way out of hell.
"It's just a scratch, love," Damien had offered when he saw my face, his voice a rough whisper of reassurances I wanted to believe. Through the fear constricting my throat, I demanded, with an authority that seemed to surprise us both, that he let me tend to him. He’s been a model patient ever since.
He sits up straight in the bed as fingers dance across the keys of his laptop with a focus I've come to recognize as part distraction, part determination. The door creeks as I I step in, losing a battle with the silence, and his piercing gaze lifts to meet mine.
"Isabella," he begins, and there's a softness in his tone that feels incongruent with the hard lines of his wounded body. "You don't have to do all this. I should be taking care of you."
I set the tray down on the dresser, and the bowls clink together.
My hands are steady as I respond. "I am your wife, Damien. We take care of each other."
The laptop snaps shut at an abrupt end to the gentle clatter of keys. He scoots to the edge of the bed, an invitation without words. As I move closer, the world seems to shrink to the charged space between us.
"Come here, wife," he murmurs, exhilaration threading his voice, and there's a hint of playfulness in the way he extends his arms. The distance closes, and I'm in his lap, enveloped by his heat. There’s a scent of antiseptic masked by the familiar cologne that insists he's very much alive and here with me. His lips capture mine in a soul-searing kiss that speaks volumes of gratitude and love, of survival against the odds.
He pulls back just enough to breathe life into his words. "Thank you for taking care of me. I'm fine, really."
There's no 'fine' in the way he clings to me. No mediocrity in the emotions that charge the air. His fingers trace patterns of promised tomorrows on my back, and despite the chaos of our world, in his arms, I find a momentary peace.
I sit up and shimmy down his body. My hands move to pull down his boxers, and his dick springs free, hard, and ready. For a moment, I’m unsure if I should do this, but the heated look in his eyes gives me courage. I wrap my hand around his cock and stroke it up and down. He lets out the sexiest moan, so I move my hand faster, pumping hard. My head dips down, and I lick his tip before putting his length in my mouth.
“Fuck,” he groans, lifting his hips, pushing deeper in my mouth.
His hands tangle in my hair, moving my head so that I’m bobbing up and down at his pace. My tongue swirls around his sensitive head, and another moan comes from his mouth.
