9. Reese #2
He leans closer. His nose brushes the side of my jaw. A harsh, shuddering breath leaves his chest, and I feel the tension in his frame fracture.
"You shot him," Santi whispers against my skin.
"He opened the door," I reply simply. "You told me to shoot."
Santi pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. Something in his face has come unstrung. In its place is a burning, obsessive intensity. He looks at me like I am the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"You did not hesitate," he says. There is awe in his tone.
"I told you I wouldn't." I hold his gaze. I refuse to look away. "I manage my own survival, Santi. I always have."
His expression hardens. He steps even closer, crowding into my space until my chest brushes against his winter coat. He lowers his head, his mouth hovering mere inches from mine.
"Before the radio started broadcasting," Santi says, his voice dropping an octave, dangerous with intent. "I asked you a question."
He is demanding his answer. Right here. Right now. With two dead hitmen bleeding out on the porches and a blizzard trying to rip the roof off the cabin. He needs to know. He needs the absolute certainty of my choice.
I look at this man. I look at the blood on his knuckles. I look at the lethal, unforgiving lines of his face. He is a monster to the rest of the world. He is a silent, patient killer who solves problems with hollow-point rounds and cold precision.
But to me, he is the man who stayed awake all night to watch me sleep. He is the man who offered me a way out, knowing it would gut him to watch me leave. He is the man who just stood between me and a firing squad.
Choosing him is the most dangerous thing I have ever done in my life.
It defies every rule I ever made for myself. It requires trusting someone with the parts of me I spent a decade protecting. If I say yes, I am walking into a mafia war. I am stepping into a world of bulletproof SUVs, compounds, and endless violence.
I know what this costs.
I do it anyway.
"I'm not leaving," I say.
Santi freezes. His body locks down. His dark eyes flare with an intensity that steals the oxygen from my lungs.
"Say it again," he commands. The word leaves him torn from the deepest part of his chest.
"I'm staying," I tell him, my voice ringing clear and steady over the sound of the howling wind. "I’m not your prisoner. I’m not your collateral. I’m yours. That’s my choice."
Santi exhales a ragged breath. The tension holding his frame together shatters. He presses his mouth against my temple.
"Then you’re my only priority," he whispers, his hands sliding from the wall to grip my hips, pulling me flush against his body. The kiss is not violent; it is a profound, desperate relief. The cold of the room vanishes, replaced by the deep, steady heat of his mouth.
I drop the Glock. It hits the wooden floorboards with a thud. I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my fingers in the silver-streaked hair at the nape of his neck.
He groans into my mouth. He kisses me like a man starving, like a man who has wandered a desert a long time and finally found water. He holds me against the storm. He backs me harder against the wall, his frame crowding mine, making it impossible for me to move an inch in any direction.
I kiss him back with just as much ferocity. I bite at his lower lip, tasting the salt of the sweat on his skin. I pull him closer, eliminating the microscopic space between our bodies. I want him to know that I am not fragile. I am not breaking under his obsession. I am matching it.
He tears his mouth away, pressing his forehead against mine. Both of our chests heave, dragging in desperate lungfuls of the freezing air.
"My woman. My only priority. I will level the entire city before I let anyone take you from me."
"I know," I whisper, my hands still gripping the lapels of his coat. "I'm counting on it."
A dark, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It is the first time I have seen the expression on his face, and it transforms his harsh, aristocratic features into something breathtakingly handsome.
"We need to secure the breaches," Santi says, his voice returning to its calm, tactical cadence, though his hands refuse to let go of my hips. "The temperature in here is dropping rapidly. We cannot survive the night with the doors blown open."
I nod, shifting back into practical pilot mode. "The desk. We can break down the wooden desk and use the planks to barricade the front window and the back door. We have the nails from the splintered chairs."
"Agreed." Santi steps back, though he keeps one hand resting possessively on my lower back for a second longer than necessary.
We move into action. The emotional high of the confession settles into a grim, determined focus. We are a team. We are surviving.
Santi drags the bodies off the porches, tossing them over the snowbanks to keep the immediate perimeter clear.
He strips their vests and weapons, bringing the stolen magazines and a fully loaded assault rifle back inside.
He is methodical, stripping the enemy of resources and adding them to our own.
I gather the broken pieces of the wooden chairs that were destroyed in the crossfire. I find an iron fireplace poker to use as a makeshift hammer.
Together, we dismantle the wooden desk. Santi uses brute strength to snap the legs off the base, tearing the heavy planks apart with his bare hands. He lines the wood up over the shattered front window, and I drive the nails in, sealing the breach against the raging blizzard.
We move to the back door. We wedge the broken doorframe shut, nailing thick planks across the center to create a solid barricade.
The cabin is dark again. The storm still howls outside, but the planks cut the worst of the cold. We are sealed inside.
Santi strikes a match and feeds the weakened stove fire with splinters from the ruined door. The golden light flickers across his face as he kneels by the open stove door.
I walk over to him. I do not hesitate. I sit on the floor beside him, leaning my shoulder against his bicep.
He immediately wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me tight against his side. He kisses the top of my head, his beard scratching pleasantly against my scalp.
"Forty-eight hours," Santi says, staring into the flames. "Dominic's extraction team moves when the storm breaks. Until then, we hold this ground."
"We hold it," I agree, resting my hand on his thigh.
I stare at the fire. The adrenaline is beginning to fade, leaving a deep, bone-weary exhaustion in its wake. But I am not afraid. The fortress I built to keep the world out is gone, replaced by the unbreakable hold of this man's arms.
I close my eyes, listening to the crackle of the burning wood.
Then, the ground beneath us vibrates.
My eyes snap open. I sit up straight.
Santi goes rigid. The arm around my waist tightens until I feel every rigid muscle lock against my ribs.
The vibration grows stronger. It is not an earthquake. It is a rhythmic thumping that reverberates through the frozen earth and up into the wooden floorboards of the cabin.
A low, mechanical whine cuts through the sound of the wind.
It is the distinct revving of snowmobile engines. Plural.
Lots of them.
Santi stands up slowly. He reaches for the stolen assault rifle resting against the stone fireplace. He checks the magazine with a terrifyingly calm efficiency.
"I was wrong," Santi says softly, his focus fixed on the barricaded front door.
I stand up beside him, picking up my Glock from the desk. My hands are steady. "About what?"
"The men we just killed," Santi replies, his voice settling back into the lethal, flat tone of a sniper who has already chosen his targets. "They weren't the scouts."
The roar of the engines grows deafening, surrounding the cabin from every direction. The headlights cut through the gaps in the wood planks, illuminating the room in harsh, blinding beams of white light.
"They were the distraction." Santi racks the bolt of the rifle. "The main force is here."