Chapter Eight - Leon
The estate is too quiet tonight—one of those lulls that prick the back of my neck, nerves catching on every hush.
Shadows feel longer, stretched across marble and wood, and the house seems to hold its breath, waiting for something to break. I find myself drifting toward her wing, footsteps muffled, hand brushing the wall for no reason at all.
Outside Suzy’s door, I pause. There’s the muted pad of her footsteps, the soft click of a window latch, the faint, restless pacing I’ve learned to recognize.
She never really settles. Even the air feels different when she’s here—charged, restless, threaded with some expensive perfume I can never quite name.
I tell myself this awareness is duty. That it’s strategy, vigilance, nothing more. I’m holding Marcus White’s daughter, after all. There’s no room for sentiment in a war.
Still I linger, listening, the chime of a clock echoing down the corridor.
I’ve grown too accustomed to her—the scrape of her shoes in the hall, the way she looks past me when she’s angry, the heat in her eyes when she forgets to be afraid.
The truth is, she’s always in my periphery. Even when I’m pretending otherwise.
Tonight, though, there’s a wrongness in the air—a tension that has nothing to do with Suzy, or with me. I can feel it, like the hush before a thunderstorm.
I’m halfway down the corridor when the spell snaps—a shout from the side of the house, then the crash of breaking glass, the snap of gunfire as masked men pour in through a shattered door.
Instinct takes over. My world narrows to threat and protection.
Suzy steps out into the chaos just as bullets chew through the air, and I grab her hard, yanking her back against my chest. She goes stiff, breath catching, but she doesn’t scream—her pulse thunders against my ribs, wild and defiant, and I can feel her fight through the tremor.
I drag her behind the stairwell, body shielding hers, barking orders to my men. “South entrance! Block the hallway! Two on the doors!”
My gun is already in my hand, safety off, every sense tuned to survival. The world is noise and heat and shouts, but I only see her—her hair tangled, eyes enormous, knuckles white where she grips my arm.
“You stay behind me,” I snap, voice low and fierce. “Don’t move unless I tell you.”
She nods, jaw set. The lights strobe with muzzle flashes, glass exploding across the floor. Somewhere, someone is shouting for Marcus White, for ransom, for blood. The smell of cordite and sweat burns my nose.
Suddenly, an intruder barrels down the hall, swinging a rifle. I shove Suzy behind the banister, stepping into his path. He slams into me, a freight train in black.
We crash through a table, shards of crystal and wood splintering under my back. My gun skitters out of reach. The man pins me, forearm crushing my throat, his mask a blank, furious snarl. I claw at his arm, fighting for air, vision tunneling to red.
In the corner of my eye, I see movement—Suzy, shaking, her face hard and focused. She grabs a heavy glass decanter from the sideboard, lifts it with both hands, and smashes it down on the man’s head.
The blow lands with a sickening crunch, blood spraying across the floor. The man staggers, dazed, but not out. He swings wildly, catching Suzy’s shoulder, and she stumbles back with a gasp.
That does it. Fury blinds me. I wrench free, rolling to my gun. I don’t think—I just fire. The shot is low, meant to wound, not kill. The man howls, clutching his leg, collapsing. I’m on him in a second, boot to his chest, gun to his head.
“Stay down,” I snarl.
The world goes quiet—gunfire ebbing, my men shouting orders, the scent of blood and gunpowder thick in the hall.
I look up, breath ragged, to find Suzy standing over me, face white, lips parted, hair falling wild around her shoulders. Her dress is torn, but her chin is lifted, eyes fierce.
“You’re trouble,” I mutter, still half dazed, half in awe. The words escape me, half affection, half confession, a secret slipped loose in the chaos.
She huffs, chin rising, a smile ghosting across her mouth despite the tremor in her limbs. “You kidnapped trouble,” she shoots back, voice shaking but proud.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the two of us in the ruins of the hall—broken glass, spilled liquor, a body writhing on the tiles.
The tension between us is electric, humming in every inch of air, charged with everything we’ve tried to deny.
Her chest rises and falls, breath hitching, eyes searching mine.
I want to reach for her, to see if the fire in her touch can burn away the fear, the violence, the impossible mess we’ve made.
My hands are bloodied, knuckles raw, gun shaking in my grip. The world is spinning out, but she’s still here, alive, dangerous, beautiful in her rage.
I stagger to my feet, grabbing her hand—checking for wounds, for broken bones.
She shakes me off, pride in every line of her body, but there’s gratitude in her eyes, soft and fleeting.
For a second, I want to pull her close, to tell her she’s safe, that I’ll protect her, even from myself. The words die in my throat.
Sirens wail outside. My men swarm the halls, rounding up the last of the attackers. Suzy glances at the ruined stairwell, then back at me.
“You still think I’m just a hostage?”
I shake my head, adrenaline fading to awe. “No. Not anymore.”
She looks away, biting her lip. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The night is broken, and so are we, but something new hangs between us: a fragile, reckless trust, trembling in the space where violence and survival meet.
I want to say more. I want to ask her why she saved me, to tell her what it means. But the moment slips away, drowned out by the return of my men, the bark of orders, the sweep of lights across glass.
All I can do is watch her—this woman I can’t control, can’t predict, can’t stop thinking about—as she turns away, shoulders squared, eyes hard and shining with something that might be hope.
Tonight, I realize, I didn’t just survive. I changed the game, and so did she.
It’s only after the gunfire dies, after the last masked man is dragged away by my security team, that I really see her—blood blooming bright against her dress, dark and wet, running down her arm in a line that glistens in the ruined light.
Suzy stands in the shrapnel of crystal and bone, shoulders squared, refusing to flinch.
She wipes at the blood as if it’s nothing, but I can see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers tremble.
For a second, she looks at me, and I see it: she’s spent, and she’s hurting, and she’ll never admit either unless I force her.
“Med kit. Now.” My voice cracks through the aftermath, sharper than it should be. Boris appears, kit already in hand, and two more men clear a space on the floor, sweeping aside debris.
Suzy tries to wave them off, her mouth twisting in that half smirk I’ve learned to watch for. “It’s just a scratch,” she mutters, “don’t fuss.”
When she lowers herself to the floor, her knees nearly buckle.
I crouch beside her as Boris cleans the wound, disinfectant burning bright, blood smeared across Suzy’s skin. I watch her face, searching for a sign—of pain, of trust, of anything she might be willing to let me see.
She doesn’t give me relief or accusation, just a stubborn, shuttered focus on the ceiling. Her hand clenches the edge of the carpet until her knuckles go white. I can’t tell if she’s bracing for pain, or for kindness she won’t accept.
As Boris presses gauze to the gash, I stand over her, arms folded, every muscle wound tight.
I hate the way this feels—anger not at the world, but at myself.
At the men who touched her. At myself for letting it happen, for not seeing it coming, for caring at all.
I want to smash something, to make someone pay, to wrap her up and drag her somewhere safe.
Instead, I just watch her, jaw clenched, as they wind the bandage around her arm.
She glances up at me as Boris tapes the last edge down, her eyes cold and searching. For a moment, I think she’s about to ask for comfort. Then I see her mouth twist, her chin lift. No. She’s daring me to flinch first.
When the wound is dressed and Boris steps away, the silence in the hall settles thick as dust. I let the anger in my voice mask everything else.
“Did you see any of them? Did you recognize a voice?” I crouch in front of her, blocking her exit, searching her face for a lie or a flicker of fear.
She shakes her head, hair wild, breath ragged. “You think my father would send amateurs to rescue me?” Her words are clipped, almost cruel. “If it was his team, I’d be gone already.”
I try to push, my voice hard and low. “You’re sure about that? You don’t think maybe he wanted a message delivered, maybe this is about reminding me what’s at stake?”
Her glare could shatter bone. “You want to blame me for this, Leon? For being here, for being your hostage in the first place?”
“You wouldn’t be in danger if you’d stayed where you belonged,” I snap back, heat rising behind my eyes. “If you’d never come near my family—”
“If you’d protected your own damn house, this wouldn’t have happened!” She struggles to her feet, standing toe-to-toe with me. There’s a wildness in her that sets every nerve on fire. “Don’t pretend you’re my jailer and my savior at the same time. I don’t need your guilt. I need out.”
We stand there, breathing hard, our anger sharp as broken glass. I can feel the electricity in the air—resentment and relief, a need I don’t want to name.
She’s close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the way her lashes tremble. She hates me. She trusts me. She’d save my life again if it meant one more chance to fight me.
For a moment, neither of us moves. My fists clench at my sides. Hers hover near my chest, just shy of another shove. All the words I want to say—about fear, about fire, about how she’s turned my world inside out—die on my tongue.
The house is chaos around us, my men swarming, shouting, dragging the wounded away. Boris comes back, face grim.
“He bled out,” he says, nodding toward the masked man who tried to kill us. “No ID. Only a burner phone—smashed. I’ll get the techs on it.”
“Run every print,” I order, voice hoarse. “Background check the whole crew. I want answers, Boris. I want to know who sent them. This wasn’t random. It never is.”
He nods, already gone.
The hallway empties, dust settling in the pale blue morning.
I look down at my hands—blood, gun oil, a fine cut across my knuckles.
I’ve been trained for violence all my life, but nothing in my memory matches the feeling of watching Suzy fight for both of us.
The way she stared down death. The way she never gave an inch.
I try to shake it off, to retreat into logic, to remember that she’s leverage, nothing more. But her face keeps returning to me—the line of her jaw, the wild courage in her eyes, the way she glared at me as if daring me to make her small. She’s not a pawn. She’s not even an enemy, not really.
She’s a force—alive, defiant, infuriating.
***
Later, Marcus calls. His voice is controlled, but there’s an edge I haven’t heard before—something brittle, dangerous. “You have my daughter. I have your brother. Let’s end this before anyone else gets hurt.”
I should be relieved. It’s the obvious answer. I’d get Nikola back, Suzy would return to the man who raised her, and this mess would be over.
When I hang up, the only thing I feel is that raw, uncomfortable tightness in my chest. I stare at the shattered glass, the ruined hall, Suzy’s blood drying on my hands.
The thought of handing her back—of never seeing that spark in her again, never matching her fire with my own—hits me harder than any bullet.
I’m not sure when I crossed the line, but I know I have.
I stand in the empty hall, blood on my skin, replaying every second over and over. All my old certainties are gone, replaced by a single, impossible question.
What happens to a man who stops caring about winning—and starts caring about the one piece he can’t afford to lose?