21. 21 Tori
21: Tori
The sun isn’t even fully up when Blaze drags me outside. The man is such an early bird, it kills me. The air is cool, crisp, and annoyingly alive with birdsong. I’m not in the mood for nature or any of its cheerful bullshit right now. Not when my mind is too busy spinning on the fact that in two days, I’m going to have to face Nico. Probably shoot him.
Preferably more than once.
Blaze doesn’t say much as we walk, his focus locked ahead, a duffle bag in hand. His stride is confident—steady, unshakable, like he’s not scared at all.
He seems almost unbothered. And that’s what really gets me. Out of everyone, I thought Blaze would feel the same way I do, would carry the same fear creeping through every second we get closer to the confrontation.
For crying out loud, Nico practically gutted him.
And yet here he is, as calm and composed as if none of it ever happened. But I've seen the scar. Mean and jagged, cutting across his abdomen in a way that doesn’t let you forget what made it.
Blaze needs for everything to be perfect, but this scar is the total opposite.
He doesn’t talk about it, but it’s impossible to ignore. He moves like it doesn’t bother him, like it’s some faint reminder that doesn’t hold weight anymore. But I see it. I see the way he winces when he thinks no one’s looking, the way his hand sometimes hovers near the wound, like the memory of it is still fresh.
And it is. At least to me.
He sets the bag down and turns to me, his dark eyes locking onto mine in a way that makes my pulse race. Blaze doesn’t just look at me—he examines me, like he’s trying to piece together a very complex puzzle. It doesn’t feel like judgment. It feels like I'm being seen. Completely.
“You remember the basics?” he asks, his tone low and steady as he opens the duffle to reveal hand guns galore. He pulls out a glock, loading the mag and checking the barrel before he holds it out for me to take.
“Sure,” I reply, taking the gun and raising it like it’s no big deal. “Point, shoot. Don’t overthink it.”
He doesn’t smile—he's not always entertained by my sarcasm—but his gaze softens slightly, like he knows I need this to keep going. “Something like that,” he says, stepping back and gesturing toward the target he’s set up about thirty feet away. “Show me.”
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders like that’s going to make a damn difference. The gun feels wrong in my hands—heavy, awkward, like it knows I have no idea what I’m doing. My fingers tighten around the grip as I try to line up the shot, but my hands won’t stop trembling.
Deep breaths. You’ve got this. Just aim, squeeze, and—
The gun bucks violently, the shot going wide. Way wide. Like, ‘is this target in another zip code?’ wide. The sharp crack of the gunfire bounces back at me like it’s laughing, ‘ Nice try, idiot.’
I lower the gun, my cheeks burning hotter than the barrel. I don’t even have to look at Blaze to know he’s staring. I can feel his eyes boring into me, silently judging.
“You’re holding it wrong,” he says finally, his voice as calm as if he’s telling me I used the wrong fork at a fancy dinner. He moves closer, closing the space between us, and steps behind me. His chest brushes my back, solid and warm, as his hands come up to cover mine.
Pay attention, Tori. Now’s not the time to be a human puddle.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I mutter under my breath, still feeling the sting of embarrassment.
“Relax your shoulders,” he says, his breath close enough to stir the hair near my ear. His voice is low and even, but there’s that hint of authority in it that makes it impossible to argue. “You’re too tense. Loosen up, or the gun’s going to work against you.”
Loosen up. Sure. Easy for him to say when he’s not being wrapped in Blaze like a damn security blanket. I let out a slow breath, forcing my shoulders to drop a fraction.
“This is me relaxed,” I say, trying for sarcasm but landing somewhere closer to panic.
“Uh-huh.” His tone says he doesn’t buy it for a second. His hands adjust my grip, firm but careful, steadying me. “Better,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a tone that shouldn’t make my knees feel this wobbly. “Now, breathe. Deep. Steady.”
I inhale slowly, the weight of his hands grounding me as I let it out. There’s something addictive about the way he guides me, not just with his words but with his entire presence. It’s not just about teaching me—it’s about showing me how to own this moment, how to take back control.
And God, does it feel good.
His hands shift mine slightly, adjusting the angle of the gun. “When you’re ready,” he says, his tone low and deliberate, “squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull. Squeeze.”
I nod, blocking out everything but the target ahead of me. The tension in my shoulders melts away as I press the trigger. The gun bucks again, but this time, the bullet grazes the edge of the target. Not perfect, but it’s progress.
“There,” Blaze says, his tone soft but certain. “You’re starting to feel it.”
I glance back at him, catching the faintest trace of approval in his otherwise serious expression. That look of his—so intense, so unrelenting—makes me want to drag him away from this shooting lesson and into something much less innocent. I know exactly what he’s capable of when his focus shifts to me, and it’s not hard to imagine the ways he could make me forget about this gun entirely.
Before my thoughts can get the best of me, he steps back, giving me room to try again.
I raise the gun again, my hands steadier this time, the weight no longer feeling foreign. The next shot lands closer to the center, and the one after that is even better. By the time I lower the gun, my arms ache and my ears are ringing, but something flickers to life in my chest—something I haven’t felt in a long time. Confidence. Determination.
Blaze steps closer, his dark eyes locking onto mine, sharp and unyielding. “Better,” he says quietly, his voice cutting through the lingering hum in my ears. “When the time comes, you’ll hit your target.”
I nod, gripping the gun tighter as my gaze shifts back to the target. For a moment, I picture Nico standing there, his smug, arrogant face framed perfectly in the crosshairs. The thought doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t even make me hesitate.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice steady. “I will.”
Blaze doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. His confidence is grating me, unable to understand how he's not scared.
“How can you be so calm about this?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, softer than I want them to be, too close to breaking. “We’re two days away from facing Nico, and you’re out here acting like it’s nothing.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second, I almost wish I could snatch the words back. Almost. Silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until he finally speaks, his voice low.
“I’m not calm,” he says simply.
The honesty in those three words makes my chest tighten. “You seem calm,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I thought… I thought if anyone would understand how I feel, it’d be you. But you’re just… you’re so at ease, like you’re not even afraid.”
He steps closer, sliding his hands into his pockets. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he just stands there, like he’s trying to figure out how much of himself he’s willing to let me see. “I’m that way because I have to be,” he says finally. “But afraid? Tori, I haven’t stopped being afraid since the night he took you.”
His words slam into me, knocking the air out of my lungs. I blink hard, trying to process them, but all I can do is stand there, my throat tightening. “You never said…”
“Of course I didn’t,” he says, his tone softer now. “I didn’t want you to see it. But it’s there. It’s always there, mixed with a seething rage.”
I glance up at him, and for the first time, I see the cracks in his armor. He looks at me, and there’s no wall, no shield, just raw, unfiltered emotion.
“I’m haunted by it,” he says quietly, his voice breaking just slightly. “Every time I think about how I gave him the chance to take you—”
“Blaze, stop,” I cut in, my voice shaking. “That wasn’t your fault—”
No, Tori. It was yours… for wanting to save someone you should have let rot.
The thought crashes through me, sharp and unforgiving, and my stomach twists. I bite my tongue to stop it from spilling out, but it’s already there, clawing at the edges of my mind. I try to shake it off, but it sticks, cold and relentless.
I shake my head, forcing my focus back to Blaze. He’s standing there, stiff and still, like he’s bracing for me to tell him he’s wrong. Like he doesn’t know what else to do with all that guilt weighing him down.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say again, my voice firmer this time, sharper, as if saying it loud enough will make him believe it. “None of this was your fault, Blaze.”
He doesn’t argue, but his shoulders drop just a fraction, and I know he’s at least trying to hear me. Even if he doesn’t believe it yet.
“It doesn’t matter. It feels like my fault. I was supposed to keep you safe, and I didn’t. And now…” He hesitates, his jaw tightening, before he exhales slowly. “Now all I can think about is making sure it doesn’t happen again. Making sure nothing ever touches you again.”
“You’re not the reason it happened,” I say softly, my voice trembling but firm.
His hands come up to cradle my face, his touch warm and steady. “I know. But it doesn’t stop me from wishing I could’ve done more. Nothing like that is ever going to happen again. I won't let it.”
The honesty in his words, the vulnerability in his eyes, breaks something inside me. Before I can think, I lean in, and he meets me halfway, his lips brushing against mine in a kiss that’s slow and filled with every word we haven’t said. His hands tighten just slightly, holding me in a way that makes everything else fade.
When I pull back, I stay close, my forehead resting against his. My hands slide to the back of his neck, my fingers curling gently as I whisper, “Good. Because I love you too much to lose you.”
For the first time, I think ever, Blaze smiles. It's not one of his sneers, his arrogant smirks, or even his cocky grins. No, this is a genuine to God smile and it is… everything. Pure fucking perfection—like him.
“I love you, too.” He closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead against mine, his hands holding steady on my face. “You’re not going to lose me,” he murmurs, his voice soft but certain.
I better not lose any of them.
Two days, a quick annulment—granted by a judge Diablo knows—a few packed cars, and a long road trip later, we’re back at the place I once thought was my prison. Funny how things change—now, it’s home. Or as close to home as a house full of weapons and emotionally constipated men can be.
The guys open the door, and everyone files inside, their bags and crates clinking and rattling like a parade of bad decisions. No one speaks. It’s too early for jokes, too close to what’s coming for casual small talk. The silence feels heavy, like we’re all just waiting for someone to say the thing we’re too afraid to put into words. This is going to end terribly. I clutch my bag, shifting the weight as if that might ease the pressure in my chest.
This is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
I try to convince myself, but the nerves twisting in my stomach aren’t buying it. I’m less worried about myself and more about the three men standing beside me. If I lose them again… I can’t even finish the thought.
Blaze, predictably, doesn’t waste time. He’s already moving toward the table, pulling out maps and weapons like he’s putting together the world’s deadliest puzzle. I linger near the door, pretending to adjust my bag, but really I’m just avoiding reality for another five seconds. That’s all I need—five more seconds to steel myself.
Yeah, right.
I make a move toward the cars, ready to help unload, but Blaze catches me immediately. His sharp eyes flick in my direction, and he shakes his head. “No.”
“No?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, are you under the impression I take orders from you?”
“Yes,” he says simply, pointing toward the kitchen. “Sit down. Eat something. You’re going to need your strength.”
I frown, crossing my arms. “I’m fine.”
“You will be once you eat,” he replies, his voice calm but with that unyielding edge I know better than to challenge. “Now sit.”
There’s no point in arguing—Blaze in command mode is an immovable force. So I drop my bag by the door and slump into a chair with more drama than necessary. “You know, bossy isn’t your best look.”
“Oh please. It's my best look,” he responds, setting a plate of food in front of me. I don't feel like eating, but I drag the plate closer anyway. Blaze leans in slightly, his voice softer now but still firm. “Now eat,” he says, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Because if you don’t, you’ll run out of steam when it matters most. And we can’t afford that.”
Why do you always have to be right?
It's annoying.
“Fine,” I mutter, biting at the sandwich like it insulted me. “But for the record, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“I know you are,” he says, standing straight again. “But you don’t have to. Not anymore. Not with me here. No one will take care of you better than we can. Not even yourself.”
It’s a simple statement, but it lands heavier than it should. For so long, I’ve had to take care of myself. To survive on my own. It’s not easy letting someone else shoulder even a piece of that burden. But Blaze doesn’t give me the option.
I glance around the room as I eat, the tension in my stomach settling but never disappearing. Thorne is at the table, sharpening a blade in a way that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking. Each stroke of the sharpener is steady and unhurried. He’s calm, focused, a storm waiting to rain down fire and hell.
The sound of Ryder’s lighter flicking open and shut pulls my attention. He’s pacing near the door like a caged animal, his usual charm nowhere to be found. It’s strange, seeing him like this—he’s always the one cracking jokes, making light of every situation. But now? Now he looks like he’s ready to tear apart the walls with his bare hands.
“You good?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.
“No,” he snaps, not bothering to look at me. “Splitting up? Sending you off without us? This whole plan is shit, and I hate it.”
By some miracle, I had managed to convince these guys to listen to me and let me go with Juan. They acted as if I asked them to tear their hearts out and hand them to me to stab. But I need to be at the trafficking site. Something inside me is yelling that's where Nico will be, and I want to be the one to find him.
“It’s the best plan we’ve got,” I reply, setting the sandwich down and leaning back in the chair. “He won't be expecting it.”
“He’s not expecting it because it’s insane,” Ryder counters, turning to glare at me.
“Exactly,” I say, standing and crossing my arms. “Nico’s expecting us to do the predictable thing, go after just him. We’re doing the opposite and attacking it all at once.”
“I don’t like it,” Ryder mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. He's pouting again, and it's pulling at my heart more than it needs to be.
He's too fucking cute when he pouts.
“I don't expect you to,” I say, softening my tone just slightly. “I do expect you to trust that I know what I'm doing even when I'm not with you.”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to argue more. But then he sighs, crossing the room so fast I think he's going to pick me up and run away with me kicking and screaming. Instead, he pulls me into his space like he can’t stand the distance between us, settling his hands on my hips, his grip firm but not rough.
“Fine,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But if anything happens to you—”
“It won’t,” I interrupt, my voice barely above a whisper.
I won't let it. Not a second time.
He shakes his head like he doesn’t believe me, and before I can say anything else, he leans in and kisses me. It’s not soft or slow—it’s forceful, protective, like he’s trying to leave a mark before I go. My hands find his chest, steadying myself as I kiss him back.
When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far, his nose brushing against mine briefly. “Don’t make me regret letting you go,” he murmurs.
“I won’t,” I say, tapping my fingers against his chest. “I promise.”
Blaze steps in as Ryder moves back, his expression softer but no less serious. He takes my hand, his fingers brushing against mine before his eyes lock with my own. He leans in, his kiss grounding, like he’s trying to remind me of all the reasons I can do this. When he pulls back, his voice drops even lower. “Come back to us.”
“I will,” I reply. It’s not a promise—it’s a vow. It has to be. There’s no room for failure, not when the alternative is losing any of them.
The weight of what’s coming presses on me like a damn boulder, squeezing the air from my lungs as I watch Blaze step away. My chest tightens, my stomach twisting itself into knots I don’t have the energy to untangle.
Before I can spiral any further, Thorne steps in like he can just make me feel better with his presence alone. He doesn’t waste time talking or trying to soothe me. That’s not his style. Instead, his hand slides to the back of my neck as he pulls me into him, his lips brushing against mine.
The kiss is slow and sure, like he’s carving the moment into memory. Like he’s telling me something he can’t bring himself to say out loud. When he pulls back, his eyes hold mine, dark and unwavering.
“You’ll see us when this is over,” he says, his voice low but solid, like a line drawn in the sand. His thumb skims along my jaw, soft but insistent. “No exceptions.”
My throat tightens, and for a second, all I can do is nod. Then I lean in, pressing my forehead to his, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing holding me together. “I promise,” I whisper, the words shaky but firm. I have to mean it. I do mean it. Because not keeping that promise? That’s unthinkable.
Thorne’s hand lingers on my neck for a beat longer before he lets me go, leaving behind the absence of his touch like an ache.
The room feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for one of us to crack. Tension’s not just in the air—it’s in every glance, every too-long pause, every damn exhale. No one’s saying it, but we’re all thinking the same thing: this could be the last time we’re all standing here together.
I force a deep breath, trying to focus. This isn’t about us. It's about Nico, about making sure he doesn’t get another chance to destroy someone’s life the way he almost destroyed mine.
I grab my gear, checking my weapon one last time when I catch Thorne watching me again, his eyes darker than usual, like he’s carrying his own storm of emotions but won’t let them out. I'm certain he knows what I’m feeling because he’s feeling it, too.
“You ready?” Blaze asks, his voice pulling me out of my thoughts.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, standing straighter. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. I don’t know if anyone’s ever really ready for something like this.
For killing someone.
Ryder’s already at the door, leaning against the frame with his usual casual slouch, but his fingers fidget like he’s itching for a fight. “Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, his tone sharper than usual. But I know him well enough to hear what’s buried under the edge—worry, fear, maybe even guilt. He hides it like he hides everything, but it’s there.
We step outside, the air cooler than it was earlier. The sky is a dull gray, like it’s setting the mood for what's about to go down. I take another deep breath, letting the cold bite into my lungs.
Time to get that revenge you've been begging for, Tori.
Thorne steps beside me, his hand brushing mine briefly before falling away. “We’ll be close,” he says, his voice softer now. “If anything goes wrong—”
“It won’t,” I cut him off, meeting his gaze. “We’ve got this.”
I wish I believed it as much as I sound like I do. But there’s no turning back. This is happening, and this time, we're coming out on top.
My turn to show you who's really in control, Nico.