CHAPTER 15
LEON
The armored SUV screeches into the bay, the tires tearing at the concrete and sending up a cloud of burnt rubber that instantly coats the back of my throat.
The windows are completely spider-webbed from the high-caliber impacts, the reinforced glass barely holding together in a milky, shattered mess.
I’m out of the driver’s seat before the engine fully cuts.
I don't give a fuck about protocol right now. I round the hood, my boots slamming against the floor, and rip Alessia’s door open.
I don't wait for her to step out. I just reach right in, my hands sweeping over her torso, her legs, her chest with a frantic, clinical efficiency. I need to know what’s broken.
I need to know what they did to her. Seen a thousand hits in my life but watching her head snap back against the leather when the glass spider-webbed did something sick to my chest. Christ. It did something I can't even put a fucking name to.
She's sitting there with her hands rock-steady on her Glock, her breath shallow, eyes darting to the garage shadows like she’s still in the middle of the firefight. Her fucking Agent mode.
She tries to shove my hands away, her jaw tight, elbow jutting out to clear my grip so she can secure the perimeter. I kick a discarded shell casing across the concrete floor. The metallic ring echoes sharp and hollow in the garage, loud enough to break her focus.
"Drop the weapon, Alessia. We’re inside," I bark at her, my voice rougher than I want it to be.
"I'm fine, Leon, get off—"
"Don't tell me you're fine. I saw the glass spray." I’m battling this alien, deadass terrifying sensation of fear. Not for me. I don't give a shit if I take a bullet. It’s for her. The thought of her bleeding out in my backseat has me completely wrecked.
My eyes catch the dark, viscous bloom soaking into the right sleeve of her jacket.
I grab her upper arm, my thumb inadvertently pressing near the wound.
She hisses, a sharp intake of air through her teeth, her shoulder hiking up as she finally feels the sting.
My expression strips down from professional ice to something volatile.
I’m pissed. I am so unbelievably pissed off I could rip the steel doors off their hinges.
Sven comes jogging up with the security detail, a radio squawking in his hand, his mouth open to give me a status report. I ignore my ringing phone. It vibrates against my hip in a continuous, annoying buzz until it finally goes silent.
"Sven, take the car," I snap, not looking away from Alessia. "If anyone breathes a word of this to the street before I’m ready, kill them."
"It's just a graze," Alessia snaps back, trying to pull away again.
My grip is an iron shackle. I pull her flush against my chest. "Stop moving. You’re bleeding on my floor."
She’s trying to be a soldier right now. I need her to be mine.
I drag her toward the private elevator. I don't give a fuck who's watching. The doors slide shut, sealing us in the mirrored box. I crowd her into the corner of the lift, placing a hand flat on the glass on either side of her head. I don't touch her yet, but the heat radiating off me is suffocating. I can feel it. I watch her reflection in the mirrors. The smudge of soot on her pale cheek. The way her dark auburn hair is matted to her forehead with sweat. The scent of her adrenaline is thick in the tight space, a drug I’ve never tasted before and now I’m down bad for it.
The silence in the elevator is a fucking battlefield.
She refuses to look at me. Her jaw is tight with that stubborn defiance even as her body betrays her.
I can see the visible tremor in her shoulders.
She reaches up with a blood-smeared hand to adjust her collar, trying to smooth out the chaos, but her fingers shake so badly she just gives up and drops her hand to her side.
"You’re shaking, Alessia."
"It's the crash. It's biological." She stares a hole into the floor numbers lighting up above the door.
"Look at me. Not the floor. Me."
She doesn't move. She’s a lethal little thing.
If she had a knife right now, she’d probably gut me just to stop the feeling of losing control.
The hum of the elevator motor and the acrid smell of gunpowder clinging to our clothes fills the space.
I catch sight of my own bruised knuckles in the mirror, flex them, and let the anger settle deep into my bones.
The doors chime and slide open. I walk her straight through the expansive living room.
The opulence of the marble floors and the glass walls feels jarring, like a sick joke after the dirt and violence of the street we just crawled out of.
I tear off my tie, tossing it onto a designer chair without a single glance.
I don't stop. I lead her straight toward the master suite.
I don't ask her to follow; I expect it. My presence is a gravitational pull and she’s caught in the orbit.
She hesitates at the threshold, her tactical brain still mapping the skyline out the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking for sniper glints or new threats.
I swipe a crystal decanter off the side table, pour a heavy finger of scotch, and down it in one go.
The bite of the alcohol burns down my throat, grounding me.
"The windows are reinforced, Alessia," I say, setting the glass down hard. "The world is out there. You’re in here." I point toward the bedroom. "In the bathroom. Now."
She turns, her dark eyes flashing with a silent, dangerous rebellion, but she walks.
She actually pulled the trigger for me today.
She saved me. The debt of that is going to swallow us both whole.
I follow her into the master bathroom, the sterile, expensive smell of the place hitting me.
She perches on the edge of the cold marble bathtub, her legs swinging slightly in a nervous, agitated tic.
I pull a sleek tactical folder from my pocket.
The blade snicks open with a sound like a guillotine.
She stiffens, her good hand twitching as if to grab my wrist, but she forces herself to remain still.
I don't ask for permission. I step between her swinging legs, hook the blade into the ruined sleeve of her jacket, and slice upward.
The expensive fabric parts like skin under the razor edge.
I set the knife down on a white towel on the vanity. The blood on the blade stains the pristine fabric a bright, jarring red.
"Don't flinch. I'm not going to cut you," I mutter.
"You're ruining a perfectly good coat."
"This jacket is ruined anyway. Consider it a casualty of war."
I peel the sliced fabric back and my breath legitimately hitches in my throat.
The wound is a jagged, angry tear across her bicep.
Fragmented metal or glass peppered the pale skin around it, leaving tiny, bloody craters.
My hands are surprisingly steady as I inspect the depth, my fingers grazing the tender area with a gentleness that feels more threatening than a blow.
I’m horrified by the fragility of her skin. She doesn't belong near bullets.
I use my foot to push the metal trash bin closer, my movements economical and sharp. I toss the scraps of her sleeve inside.
"You were lucky," I tell her, my voice dropping. "Two inches to the left and you’d be bleeding out in the backseat." I look up at her face. "Do you have any idea how much work I put into keeping you alive for the last three years?"
She watches me, her eyes searching my face for a weakness in the mask.
She doesn't even cry. Most men I know would be sobbing right now.
What the fuck did the Bureau do to her? I turn to the glass tray and arrange my supplies.
Antiseptic. Gauze. Sutures I probably won't need.
I look like a priest preparing an altar.
The silence is heavy. I am the one in control of her pain right now, and we both know it.
She picks at a loose thread on her remaining sleeve, her head bowed, staring at the marble floor.
"This is going to burn," I say, grabbing the bottle. "I'm not going to apologize for it." I pause, waiting. "Look at me while I do this."
She lifts her chin, her eyes locking onto mine.
I dip a cotton pad into the rubbing alcohol.
She braces her heels against the floor. I drag the soaked pad over the raw, torn skin.
It's slow. Deliberate. The cold sting of the liquid hits her and I watch her face for any sign of a crack.
I want to see if she breaks. I want to be the one who sees it first. She doesn't make a sound.
I move closer, stepping further between her parted legs, my thigh pressing hard against her knee. My physical weight caging her.
My thumb brushes her collarbone, a stray movement that lingers a second too long, feeling the frantic pulse jumping under her skin.
"You’re a good soldier, Alessia. Almost too good," I murmur. "Tell me what you were thinking when you saw the muzzle flash."
"I was thinking about the trajectory," she whispers, her voice tight.
I apply more pressure, digging the debris out of the wound.
She finally lets out a sharp, ragged hiss through her teeth.
She grips the edge of the marble tub so hard her knuckles turn completely white, matching mine.
I stop, but I don't pull away. I lean in, my face dipping until my lips are inches from her ear.
"That’s it. Take it," I whisper into the shell of her ear, the vibration of my voice sinking into her. "Christ, you’re beautiful when you’re bleeding for me."