17. Elena
Idon’t know how long I’m gone before I come back to myself.
Consciousness returns in fragments—light, pressure, a pounding ache that seems to live behind my eyes.
I blink, once, then twice, and the world tilts wildly, refusing to settle.
Pain lances through my skull, as though someone is twisting a blade just behind my temples.
I squeeze my eyes shut again, breath hitching, and wait for the spinning to slow.
When I open them the second time, shapes begin to sharpen. Colors slowly bleed back into their proper places. The air smells like damp concrete and rust and something coppery I don’t want to name.
I lift a hand to my forehead and hiss. My fingers come away sticky. Dried blood has crusted along my temple and hairline, tugging painfully at my skin when I move.
“Clara?”
My voice sounds small. Fragile.
A presence shifts behind me. Clara’s hand presses firm and solid between my shoulder blades, grounding me as she helps me sit up. My muscles protest, sluggish and unresponsive, like they’ve forgotten how to answer commands.
“I see you still can’t keep yourself out of trouble,” she mutters, the strain in her voice betraying the effort it takes to haul me upright.
I try to respond, but my gaze snags on the storm drain beside us.
The lid is closed.
My breath rushes from my lungs. “How are you—” The words die in my throat as I register the two men sprawled nearby, unmoving, their bodies twisted awkwardly against the pavement. My heart slams against my ribs. “Alexei.”
Clara follows my stare. Her hand drops from my back instantly.
She kicks one of the unconscious men away from the drain, then drops to a knee and digs her fingers into the edge of the metal lid.
I don’t wait for instruction. I scramble forward, my palms scraping against unforgiving concrete as I grab the opposite side.
We grunt in unison, our nails cracking, our muscles screaming, but the lid finally shifts. Metal grinds against stone. Water sloshes beneath us before settling into a dark, ominous ripple.
Clara leans over and reaches into the opening.
Nothing.
She curses under her breath, pulls her phone from her pocket, and flicks on the flashlight. The beam cuts through the murky water but reveals nothing solid.
“Grab my legs,” she orders.
Before I can think, she’s already lowering herself headfirst into the drain. Panic claws at my throat as I lock my arms around her calves, bracing my knees against the pavement. I hold on with everything I have, my hands shaking, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Seconds bleed into something shapeless. All I can hear is water splashing and my own heartbeat pounding like a war drum.
Then Clara’s legs jerk.
I tighten my grip as she pushes back, her body emerging from the opening, soaked and breathing hard.
Her hands are empty.
I let go, stumbling backward as something inside me shatters. “No—no!” The sound rips out of me, raw and animal.
I stare into the drain. Murky water. Fading ripples. That’s all that’s left.
The last image burned into my mind is Alexei’s face—his eyes wide, worried, locked on mine as I was dragged away.
He can’t be gone.
He can’t.
“We have to get down there,” I scream, my voice breaking apart. “He’s down there. He would have found a way out. I know he will!”
Clara’s face tightens. But it isn’t the pain etched into her expression that destroys me.
It’s the tears gathering in her eyes.
Clara doesn’t cry. She doesn’t falter. She doesn’t crack.
“Don’t,” I choke out, shaking my head violently. “Don’t look at me like that.”
My hand presses against my chest, the ache there sharp but incomplete. Not hollow. Not final. “He would have made it out,” I whisper. “I would know.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I reach. Demand. Beg. Command. Show me.
Nothing answers.
When I open my eyes, Clara’s silence confirms what she won’t say. The ache in my chest deepens, splintering into something that feels dangerously close to heartbreak. I refuse it. I refuse to let it take shape.
“Braydon? Lance?” I ask hoarsely. “Where are they?”
Clara touches her earpiece. “Lance?” She taps it harder. “Static.” She pulls her phone free, stares at the dark screen, then slams it against the ground. “Your phone?”
I shake my head. “I left it in the car when I slipped away from Lance and Blake so they couldn’t track me.”
She swears, then her eyes snap to the nearest unconscious man. In seconds, she’s rifling through his pockets. Her posture stiffens when she comes up with a phone. She yanks off his ski mask, tilts his head, and waits for the screen to unlock.
“Lance?” she says the moment it connects. “Where is Lex?”
She turns slightly away, listening. My breath catches with every second that passes.
“What?” I snap.
She ignores me.
“Clara,” I plead.
She covers the receiver and looks at me, her face carefully blank. “They found him?—”
“So he’s okay,” I say, hope surging too fast, too fragile.
She doesn’t answer immediately. The crack in my chest spreads wider.
“Unconscious,” she repeats quietly. “The drain was sealed. When they got it open, he was inside.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “No.”
She turns back to the call, listening intently. Her shoulders ease, slightly. Her eyes close as she exhales.
“Thank God. Where?” A pause. “She’s stable. I’ll get her there.” She hangs up.
“He’s alive?” I whisper.
She nods.
I’m on my feet instantly. “We need to go. Now.”
“We will,” she says, steadying me with a raised hand.
She strips the unconscious men of everything; guns, knives, phones, keys. A sharp beep cuts through the alley when she hits the fob.
We follow the sound.
Tucked beside a dumpster sits a sleek black motorcycle. Clara kicks the stand up and rolls it free.
“A Ducati Panigale V4,” she whistles. “Bad guys have excellent taste.”
“I don’t care,” I snap.
“And fast,” she adds, grinning. “Climb on.”
Fear flickers through me for only a second. I’ve never been on a bike, but it’s crushed instantly beneath the need burning in my chest. I swing my leg over and cling to her as the engine roars to life.
“Hold on!” she shouts.
“What?”
Too late.
The bike surges forward. I squeeze my eyes shut without thinking and press my cheek to her back as she barely slows, leaning us through each turn with terrifying precision.
At a barricade, she flashes a badge mid-ride. Guards scramble aside, moving the barricade seconds before we would have plowed through.
Moments later, we skid into another alley.
Braydon. Lance. Blake.
I jump off before the bike fully stops.
“Alexei!”
He’s on his back. Soaked. Pale.
But his chest rises.
I drop to my knees beside him, shoving wet hair from his forehead. My hand flies to his chest. Strong. Steady. His fingers curl around mine.
I’m here, his eyes say. “I’m okay,” he croaks.
I laugh and sob all at once.
“What happened?” I ask.
His gaze sharpens on the cut at my temple. “I could ask you the same.” He glances at Clara. “Thank you.”
She grins. “This puts me ahead.”
Alexei’s mouth tightens into a thin line, but he nods. His attention shifts back to me, laser focused, as if the rest of the world has blurred into irrelevance. His fingers lift, brushing under my chin, and he gently turns my face to the side.
The touch is careful. Reverent.
His thumb pauses near my temple, just shy of the cut, as though even the thought of hurting me again makes something dark flicker behind his eyes.
“I’m okay,” I say. I force a small smile, one meant only for him. “I promise.”
His gaze searches my face, weighing my words against what he sees.
Later. There will be a later. Because he’s alive. And I’m not letting go.
After another few seconds, he exhales and lets the matter go for now. I know that look. This isn’t finished. It’s merely postponed until we’re somewhere safe and quiet and he can fall apart without witnesses.
Alexei shifts his weight with a low grunt, angling his hips before pushing himself upright. I move with him, instinctively staying close, my hand hovering near his arm in case he stumbles. He coughs as he stands, the sound sharp and wet, a few drops of water splattering onto the pavement.
“The men who attacked Elena?” he asks, voice rough.
Clara snorts. “Ask me a serious question.”
She dumps the contents of her pockets into her hands; phones, keys, cash, and then turns to Lance and shoves everything toward him. “Pictures of their faces are on this phone,” she says flatly. “Since mine is dead.” Her gaze cuts back to Alexei. “You owe me a new one.”
The ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth.
I loosen my grip on him as my attention drifts to Braydon.
He’s standing a few feet away, but he might as well be miles. His shoulders are rigid, his chest rising and falling too fast, his eyes fixed on the ground, hands balled into fists, as if he’s afraid to look up and confirm what he already believes…that he failed.
I cross the distance between us and take his hand.
He startles slightly before his fingers curl around mine. Slowly, he lifts his head. The pain in his eyes is raw and unguarded, it hits harder than any wound I carry.
Guilt coils tight in my chest.
Hannah is gone. Taken. And the truth I don’t want to voice sits heavy between us: Braydon chose me. He did his job. He protected me first, exactly as he was trained to do. And in those stolen seconds, someone else lost her freedom. The woman he loves.
He will never blame me.
I blame myself enough for the both of us.
“I tried,” he says hoarsely, his grip tightening. “I couldn’t find her. I swear?—”
“I know,” I murmur, squeezing his hand, anchoring him. “I know you did everything you could.”
“It wasn’t enough,” he snaps, the words ripping out of him. His jaw tightens, then he drags in a breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the fire has dulled into regret. “I’m sorry.”