Chapter Twelve - Dimitri
The street is too quiet. I know it the second the car rolls to a stop, tires crunching against uneven asphalt.
This neighborhood has always been a place where shadows stretch long, where men keep their heads down and their mouths shut, but tonight the silence feels sharper.
A street with no noise isn’t a peaceful one. It’s a waiting one.
I step out first, coat falling into place, eyes moving across the rows of shuttered buildings.
I don’t look directly at the windows, but I mark each one.
Two with blinds angled wrong, one with glass that’s been wiped clean while the rest are still fogged with grime.
I take in alleys, cars left too close to the curb, the way a cat bolts into the darkness and doesn’t return.
All of it cataloged, all of it weighed.
Behind me, Annie’s door opens. She hesitates before her heels click against the pavement. She’s trying to match my stride, but her steps are shorter, lighter. I can hear the difference, even without looking. When she finally falls into step beside me, her voice is tight.
“Why am I even here?”
Her question isn’t loud, but it cuts through the stillness. I don’t slow. “You’re here because I told you to be.”
“That’s not an answer,” she mutters.
“It’s the only one you’ll get.”
I glance at her then. Her arms are crossed, her eyes scanning the same way mine do, but she’s looking differently. Where I see patterns, she sees unease. The emptiness of the street rattles her. It should.
“This is supposed to be a meeting,” she says. “Not… whatever this is.”
“It is a meeting,” I say. “Meetings aren’t always safe. Don’t forget that.”
She exhales sharply, almost a laugh but without humor. “You could’ve left me behind.”
“I could have.” My tone doesn’t shift, but I let the words land the way I mean them to. “I didn’t. So stay close.”
Her gaze flicks to me, something in it unreadable. Defiance, maybe. Curiosity, more likely, but she doesn’t argue again.
We walk toward the warehouse where the ally waits, the gravel crunching underfoot.
I can feel her tension like static in the air, hear the way she holds her breath a second too long when a pipe rattles in the distance.
She doesn’t know that I’m already counting exits, already reading the rhythm of the night.
The silence presses harder as we approach the corner. My hand shifts inside my coat, not pulling the weapon, just resting near it. Habit. Instinct.
One last glance at her before we round the bend. Her chin is tilted higher now, her mouth set. She’s afraid, but she’s trying to bury it under stubbornness.
Good. Fear keeps people alive… but only if they know when to listen to it.
The first crack of gunfire splits the air, sharp enough to rattle the windows. In the split second before chaos swallows the street, my only thought is that she’s too exposed.
The echo rolls down the narrow street, a vicious drumbeat that promises more.
I don’t hesitate. My body knows what to do before thought catches up.
My hand finds Annie’s arm just as the second burst rips through the night.
The sound multiplies; glass shattering somewhere above us, the ricochet of rounds sparking off metal, the bark of my men shouting in Russian as they return fire.
The air fills with the stink of cordite and exhaust. Acrid smoke clings to the back of my throat, bitter and choking. Every breath tastes like iron.
Annie freezes. I see it in the corner of my eye—the way her body locks, eyes wide, chest heaving too fast. She’s rooted to the open, caught like prey in headlights.
The sound overwhelms her, the chaos pressing in from every side.
It’s her first real taste of violence outside the insulated walls of the estate, and it’s breaking through her defenses one heartbeat at a time.
I don’t give her a chance to stay frozen. I rip her sideways, hard enough that she stumbles, and shove her down behind a parked car. My grip clamps around her wrist, anchoring her as bullets scream overhead.
The pavement bites through my coat as I drop, dragging her with me. Her breath bursts out in a startled cry, half smothered by the roar of gunfire. My body covers hers before she can move, pinning her against the asphalt.
Another shot cracks so close I feel the heat skim past my shoulder. A burst of pain follows—hot, sharp—when a round grazes my arm. I grit my teeth, refusing to give the wound acknowledgment. Blood is nothing compared to keeping her alive.
“Stay down,” I growl, my mouth near her ear. My voice has to cut through the chaos, low and commanding. “Don’t move unless I tell you.”
Her eyes flick to mine, pupils blown wide. She wants to argue—I see it in the tremor of her lips—but the next volley slams into the hood of the car above us, metal shrieking. Her head ducks instinctively, and she presses tighter against the ground.
Good. She’s listening.
I shift my weight to shield her better, my chest pressing into her back, every muscle braced. The scrape of gravel grinds into my knees, but I don’t care. My focus stays locked on the street beyond, reading the rhythm of the attack, counting the shooters by the pattern of their fire.
Around us, the world is chaos. My men bark orders between bursts of Russian, their rifles answering in controlled rhythm. Windows above explode into shards, raining glass across the pavement. The acrid smoke thickens, mixing with the copper tang of fresh blood.
Annie’s heart hammers beneath me, fast and uneven. Her hands clutch the ground, fingers scraping against grit. She’s terrified—I can feel it in every tremor of her body—but she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t thrash. She holds still, pressed under me, trusting that I know what I’m doing.
I press my injured arm tighter to my side and lean close again, voice hard as steel. “You stay put, no matter what happens. Understand?”
She nods quickly, the motion jerky, and twists to gaze up at me with doe-like eyes. Fear burns there, but something else too—something stubborn. She won’t let panic own her completely.
The gunfire begins to thin, attackers losing their rhythm as my men push back. I don’t ease off her, not yet. Not until I’m certain the street is ours again.
For now, she stays beneath me, the chaos raging overhead, and I remind myself that her safety comes first, even if it means bleeding into the dirt to keep her there.
The car is thin shelter, metal groaning every time a round slams into its frame, but it’s enough to keep her alive.
I press myself tighter against her, chest to her back, one arm braced above her head to shield what I can.
The heat of her body seeps through her clothes, trembling against mine.
Her breath comes in ragged bursts, shallow and quick, like a bird beating itself against a cage.
The next crack of a rifle punches through the night, and pain slices along my arm—sudden, hot, tearing fire.
I grunt, teeth clenched as the shock rips through me.
The bullet only grazed, a few inches above the first wound…
but it burns, blood sliding warm beneath my sleeve.
I shift my weight, keeping it hidden, not giving her the satisfaction—or the fear—of seeing me falter.
But Annie notices. She tilts her head just enough to catch the tightness in my jaw, the way my lips flatten against the pain. Her eyes are wide, still glassy with panic, but they fix on me like she’s memorizing every flicker.
“You’re bleeding,” she whispers, voice breaking on the words.
“It doesn’t matter,” I snap back, low and firm. My voice has to be harder than the bullets overhead. “What matters is you. Staying down. Staying silent.”
She swallows, her chin digging against the pavement. “I can help—”
“No.” The refusal leaves me sharp, clipped, absolute. “You’ll do exactly as I say, or you’ll die. Understand?”
Her body stiffens under mine, defiance sparking even now. “I’m not useless,” she hisses, though her hands still clutch at the asphalt like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored.
“You’re alive,” I counter. My voice drops, quieter, harsher. “That’s enough.”
For a moment, she holds my stare, fear battling stubbornness in her eyes. The chaos rages around us—my men shouting, gunfire hammering metal, glass spraying across the street—but all I see is her, pressed beneath me, refusing to look away even when she’s terrified.
Her lip trembles. She nods once.
“Good,” I breathe, forcing steel into the word. I shift my grip on her arm, squeezing just enough to anchor her there. “Stay put. No matter what.”
Another round slams into the hood above us, sparks raining down. She flinches, but she doesn’t move. I can feel her pulse hammering through her arm where I hold her, frantic but steadying. Even through her terror, there’s something else—a strange, fragile thread of trust.
She’s terrified. I can feel it in every shiver of her frame, every shallow breath. But she’s still here, letting me cover her, letting me take the brunt of fire meant for both of us.
In the middle of the chaos, I know one thing with certainty: she doesn’t realize it yet, but being under me is the safest place she’ll ever be.
The rhythm of the fight changes before my mind fully registers it. The bursts of gunfire grow shorter, then scattered, then—silence. A silence that isn’t clean, but jagged. The world still rings in my ears, sharp and shrill, as if the air itself has split.
I stay over Annie, chest pressed to her back, every muscle coiled. Smoke drifts in thin ribbons, acrid and bitter, stinging the back of my throat. The scent of cordite clings to everything, mixing with the iron tang of blood already cooling on the pavement.
A groan rises somewhere down the block. Another voice shouts in Russian—one of mine, clipped and commanding. Boots crunch through broken glass, doors slam, metal creaks as cars are checked for movement.
Annie stirs beneath me, her hands curling against the ground. “It’s… it’s over?” Her voice is hoarse, raw from holding her breath too long.
“Not until I say it is.” I shift slightly, scanning the rooftops, the shadows between the buildings. My eyes cut through every alley, every window. Waiting for the second wave. It doesn’t come. I don’t ease up.
“Dimitri.” Her tone sharpens now, cutting through the ringing in my ears. “You’re bleeding.”
I don’t answer.
Her hand pushes at my chest, tentative but firm. “Let me see it.”
“No.” The refusal is sharp, final.
She lifts her head enough to catch my gaze. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, her face streaked with dust. Her mouth is set. “I’m not moving until you let me.”
We stare at each other in the smoky dark, gunfire still echoing faintly in memory. She means it.
A voice calls from the street corner. “Clear!”
Another answers with numbers—casualty counts, ammunition spent. Their tones are clipped, efficient, as disciplined as I trained them to be. The fight is over.
Slowly, I ease back, giving Annie space to sit up. She does, immediately twisting toward my arm. The bullet’s path burned a line across my bicep, tearing cloth and skin alike. The wound is shallow, but the blood runs steady, soaking dark through my sleeve.
Her breath catches when she sees it. “God—”
“It’s nothing,” I cut in.
She ignores me, fingers already tugging at her coat, tearing fabric free. Her hands tremble, but her movements are deliberate. She bunches the material, presses it against my arm. Blood seeps through instantly, warm against her skin. She flinches but doesn’t stop.
“Hold still.” Her voice shakes, but it’s more command than plea.
I study her, silent, as she works. Her hands are too small against my arm, her fingers shaking so hard she nearly drops the cloth. She doesn’t quit. She presses harder, teeth clenched, her breath quick and shallow.
“You’re wasting your coat,” I say.
“I don’t care.”
Her eyes flick to mine for a heartbeat, and something in them burns hotter than fear. Anger. Relief. Something else she doesn’t want to name.
I lean closer, letting my weight shift toward her, testing. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
“Then why did you bring me?” The words snap out, sharp as glass. She ties the makeshift bandage tighter, wincing when I grunt. “Don’t tell me it was an accident. You wanted me here. You—” Her voice breaks, then steadies. “You could’ve left me behind.”
I don’t answer right away. Her hands knot the fabric, stained red, her fingers smeared with my blood. My gaze never leaves her face.
She finally exhales, a shaky laugh without humor. “You risked yourself for me.”
“I protect what’s mine,” I say evenly.
Her hands still for just a second, then resume. “I’m not yours.”
The words hang between us, heavy, electric. My blood stains her skin, her clothes. Her eyes flash up to mine again, unflinching, daring.
“You’re alive because I decided you would be,” I tell her, voice low, controlled. “That’s all that matters.”
Her jaw tightens. “Maybe, but you’re still bleeding because of it.”
Silence stretches. The fire in her eyes doesn’t dim.
Finally, she finishes tying the fabric, her hands shaking harder now that the worst of it is done. She leans back, but not far, still too close, her breath brushing my throat.
I should push her away. Remind her what this is, what I am.
I see something I hadn’t before—not just defiance, not just fear. Determination. She refused to move until she helped me. She refused to let me dismiss her.
I know, with absolute certainty, that she’s crossed a line she can’t step back from.