Chapter 24
The private elevator had no standard numbers on the panel.
There was only a discreet button, hidden beneath a steel cover that opened only with the physical key Cassian kept on his keychain alongside the one for the penthouse.
Even after turning the key, you had to press your thumb against the biometric reader until the red light turned green.
Only then did the button illuminate. No label. No name. Just a matte black circle.
When the doors opened, the air hit me like a solid wall.
Up in the penthouse, the air was clean, almost sterile, filtered by systems that cost more than a car, carrying only the scent of lilies I insisted on buying and the lingering smell of my oil paints scattered around the studio.
Down here, the air was dense, heavy, saturated with solvent, cold metal, old gunpowder, and something more primal—the metallic tang of blood that had never been spilled there but hung like a promise.
I stepped out.
My sneakers—worn black Converse, the only shoes I still had from when I was just Solaia and not Mrs. Varro—squeaked on the glossy gray epoxy floor.
The sound echoed through the vast space like a muffled scream.
I wore black compression leggings that clung to my skin like a second skin, a thin white tank top already sticking to the sweat beading on my back.
Hair pulled into a high ponytail, so tight it tugged at my forehead.
No makeup. No jewelry. No armor of red lipstick or high heels.
Just me, raw, exposed, trying not to tremble.
“You took three minutes and seventeen seconds.”
His voice came from the back, low, precise, as always.
Cassian had his back to me, bent over a stainless steel workbench in the center of the bunker.
The space was a reinforced concrete box, walls thick enough to withstand an explosion, fluorescent lights humming overhead in a cold, almost clinical tone.
At the end of a sixty-foot corridor, paper targets hung on motorized rails—black human silhouettes, empty faces, waiting.
He was assembling a pistol with hypnotic movements.
Large hands, veins standing out, precise fingers.
Click—the bolt slid back. Clack—the recoil spring snapped into place.
The metallic sound was dry, final, like bones breaking.
He wore black tactical pants, a tight shirt of the same color that traced every line of his shoulders, his back, the triceps that flexed with each movement.
The fabric clung to his sweat—he’d been down here for hours, maybe since dawn.
“The elevator’s slow,” I replied, crossing my arms beneath my breasts to hide that my palms were clammy. “And I was deciding whether I really wanted to come down to your death basement.”
He turned slowly.
He wore clear safety glasses over his usual prescription lenses—a double layer that made him look like a scientist studying a dangerous species. His gray eyes, behind all that glass, were colder than the concrete around us.
“After the Drake Hotel?” He picked up the assembled weapon—a Beretta 92X, I recognized now—and set it on the counter with reverent care. “Yes. It’s necessary. And it’ll be daily until you can hit the heart nine times out of ten, blindfolded if need be.”
I walked toward him.
Each step echoed. The bunker was intimidating in a way the penthouse never could be.
AR-15 assault rifles lined the wall like soldiers in formation.
Ammunition boxes stacked to the ceiling, labeled in military stencil.
Combat knives—Ka-Bar, Benchmade, even a curved karambit—arranged by size on a black velvet shelf like macabre jewelry.
There was even a reloading bench, gunpowder spilled across it like golden dust.
“You broke his finger joint by joint, Cassian,” I argued, stopping ten feet away, keeping my distance because I needed to. “The message was sent. Alexei Volkov will think twice before looking at me again.”
He picked up an electronic ear protector—the kind that amplifies voices but blocks gunshots—and held it out to me. His fingers brushed mine. Electricity.
“Fear has a short memory, Solaia.” His voice was low, controlled, but I heard the tension beneath it. “Alexei is a lapdog. His owner, Nikolai Kovacs, is the wolf. And wolves don’t forget when you mark territory on their female.”
I took the protector. The silicone was still warm from his body.
“I’ve never held a gun,” I admitted, my voice smaller than I intended.
“I know.” He pointed to the Glock 43X on the counter. Compact. Matte black. Lethal. “Pick it up.”
I hesitated.
The object seemed to pulse with its own energy.
Cold. Heavy. As if it knew it was made to end lives.
I reached out. My fingers trembled. I closed them around the textured grip—rough, designed not to slip even when slick with blood.
It was heavier than I’d imagined. Dense. Like holding fear made solid.
“Don’t put your finger on the trigger.” His voice cut like a blade. “Rule number one: your finger only touches the trigger when you want to destroy. Until then, it stays here.” He took my hand, repositioning my index finger so it lay extended along the barrel. His touch burned.
I obeyed.
Then he walked around the counter.
Step. Step. Step. Slow. Deliberate. He stopped behind me. So close I felt the heat radiating from his body before any contact. His chest pressed against my back. His belt buckle dug into the base of my spine. His arms wrapped around mine like living shackles.
“Spread your legs.”
My eyes went wide. My heart lurched.
“What?”
“Your stance, Solaia.” His large hands gripped my hips, thumbs pressing into my hip bones through the thin leggings. He pushed my feet apart until they were shoulder-width apart. “Root. You need to be rooted.”
He lightly kicked the inside of my right foot. Corrected the angle. Lean forward. Aggressive.
I adjusted.
Then he pressed himself flush against me.
There was no space. I felt everything: the solid mass of his chest rising and falling against my shoulder blades, his heart beating steady, controlled, the heat of his groin pressing against my ass, the growing hardness that betrayed this wasn't just a lesson.
His scent—masculine musk, gun oil, something feral—flooded my senses like a drug.
“Relax your shoulders,” he whispered, mouth so close to my ear I felt his lips brush the shell of it. His warm breath made every hair on my neck stand on end. “If you're tense, you'll miss everything.”
His hands covered mine on the gun. Long fingers, callused from years on the trigger, completely enveloping mine. He guided my arms up. The Glock pointed at the silhouette ten meters away.
I was caged by him.
Surrounded. Protected. Dominated.
The smell of old gunpowder mingled with the heat of his body. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to pulse in rhythm with the blood in my veins.
“Hold firm with your left,” he instructed, adjusting finger by finger. “Right aims. Left controls the recoil. Partnership. Like us.”
The word “us” vibrated in my sternum.
I blushed to the roots of my hair.
“Like us,” I repeated, my voice faltering.
“Aim at center mass. Chest. Big target. Organs. Stop the threat.”
I saw the black silhouette trembling slightly in my peripheral vision. My heart was pounding so hard the gun vibrated in my hand. His breathing synchronized with mine—he inhaled when I inhaled, his chest expanding against my back like a tide.
“Breathe deep. Release half. Hold.”
I obeyed.
The world narrowed. Only the sight, the target, and the man wrapped around me like a second skin existed.
“Now. Pull. Smooth. Like beckoning me with your finger.”
My index finger slid to the trigger.
The resistance.
The break.
BANG.
The sound was muffled thunder through the ear protection, but the vibration—God, the vibration—ran through the bones of my arms, shoulders, teeth, spine, all the way down between my legs.
The gun jumped like a living thing. The acrid, chemical smell of burned gunpowder exploded in the air, coating my nostrils, my tongue.
I blinked. Looked at the target. A torn hole in the left shoulder.
“I missed the center,” I whispered, frustrated.
“You hit flesh,” he responded, mouth still at my ear. “That's enough to put a man down and keep him there. Again.”
I fired.
BANG. Closer.
BANG. The recoil was familiar now, almost welcome. Like a slap that hurts but reminds you you're alive.
BANG.
With each explosion, something inside me opened.
Power.
Pure, distilled, intoxicating.
On the fifth shot, the paper tore exactly where the heart would be.
“That's it,” Cassian growled, his voice so hoarse it sounded scraped raw. “Good girl.”
Those two words hit me like a bullet.
An electric shock ran down my spine, exploded in my belly, made my thighs clench involuntarily against his. A low moan escaped my throat. I gripped the gun too hard, knuckles white.
He felt it. Of course he felt it.
In one fluid motion, he took the Glock from my hand, engaged the safety, and tossed it on the counter with a metallic clang. Then he spun me around.
Facing him.
Pinned between his body and the cold counter.
He ripped off my ear protection. Ripped off his. The safety glasses clattered to the floor.
His gray eyes had gone black.
“You liked that,” he stated, voice dangerous.
“I felt…” I swallowed hard, “…invincible.”
“You are.”
His hands slid up my waist, grabbed my tank top, pulled it up to expose the skin of my stomach. His thumbs grazed beneath my breasts, finding my nipples already hard through the thin fabric. I gasped.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing, set me on the steel counter, sweeping ammunition boxes and metal parts aside with one arm. The noise was deafening—metal against metal, the clink of rolling rounds.
My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. I pulled him to me.
“Cassian…” I moaned as his mouth descended to my neck, teeth scraping the throbbing vein.
“No one comes in here,” he growled against my collarbone, hands already sliding beneath my tank top, warm palms against my ribs, thumbs tracing circles over my breasts until I arched my back.
“Soundproof. Scream. I want to hear you screaming my name while I fuck you with the smell of gunpowder in the air.”
His words set me ablaze.
I reached for the hem of his shirt, pulled it up, exposing his abdomen marked by old scars—a white line from a bullet below his ribs, another circular one from a knife on his oblique.
My fingers traced each mark like reading braille written in pain.
He shuddered violently, a grunt escaping his chest.
He ripped my tank top off over my head in one swift motion.
My hair escaped from the ponytail, tumbling free.
His mouth traveled down my chest, tongue tracing the valley between my breasts, teeth closing on a nipple until I screamed.
His hands slid down over my leggings, grabbed my ass, pulled me against the throbbing hardness beneath his tactical pants.
I felt everything.
The cold metal of the counter against my bare thighs.
The scalding heat of him between my legs.
The smell of gunpowder mixed with male sweat and raw desire.
I pushed my hips against him, seeking friction, moaning loudly when I felt him pulse against my core.
He growled, one hand rising to grab my hair, pull my head back, expose my throat while the other slipped down the front of my leggings, finding the wet heat, his thumb pressing exactly where I needed.
I was lost.
Convulsing against his hand, screaming his name as waves of pleasure shot through me like bullets.
But then.
He stopped.
Completely.
His hand withdrew from inside my leggings. His mouth pulled away from my neck. His forehead dropped to my shoulder, his breathing heavy, body trembling with restraint.
I waited.
Was the ice going to return? Was he going to push me away and say it was just adrenaline?
“No,” he said, his voice hoarse, as if reading my mind. He lifted his head. His eyes still burned, but there was something stronger than desire there. “I haven’t finished the lesson.”
I frowned, panting, my body still trembling from the aftershocks of the almost-orgasm.
“The lesson’s over,” I whispered, my voice shaky. “I hit the heart.”
He held my face with both hands. His thumbs trembled slightly against my cheeks.
“Hitting paper is easy, Solaia. Paper doesn’t bleed. Doesn’t look at you while it dies. Doesn’t have a mother who’ll cry at the funeral.”
He pulled back enough for the cold bunker air to circulate between us again. He straightened his shirt with abrupt movements, then picked up the Glock, checked that it was unloaded, held it by the barrel, and offered it to me.
“This gun is yours now. I’ll have a custom holster made. I want you carrying. Always.”
I looked at the black metal.
It was no longer strange.
It was an extension.
“In my purse?” I asked, my voice still hoarse with unresolved desire.
“On your body,” he corrected, eyes locked on mine. “Purses get lost. Purses get stolen. On your body means if they touch you, they’ll feel death before you even pull the trigger.”
I slid off the counter. My legs still weak, my core throbbing with unsatisfied need. The smell of sex and gunpowder clung to my skin.
“You think it’s going to happen soon,” I said, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed on the counter.
He stowed the ammunition boxes with methodical movements. He didn’t look at me.
“What I did with Alexei… my reaction… I showed my hand. I showed them you’re the only way to get to me. The Kovacs saw. They’ll use it.”
“I’m your weak spot?” The question came out barely above a whisper.
He stopped.
Turned slowly.
Rested his hands on the counter behind him, tilted his head. His gray eyes now completely vulnerable.
“You’re the only thing that can make me lose my head, Solaia. The only one who can make me slip up. And mistakes, in my world, cost lives.”
“That’s protection,” I countered, taking a step forward.
“In my world, it’s the same thing.”
He walked up to me, stopped one step away. Touched my face, his thumb tracing my still-swollen lower lip.
“If I fall… if they take me out of the game… you need to be ready. You need to be the last one standing.”
I saw the fear in him then. Not for his own death. For what would be left behind. For the broken promise.
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“I will be,” I promised, my voice firmer than it had ever been.
He nodded.
Leaned in. Kissed my forehead. Slow. Chaste. A funeral blessing.
“Let’s go up. Dinner’s ready.”
We headed to the elevator.
I held the Glock against my thigh, the metal now warm from my hand.
The war had begun.
And I was armed.