Chapter 23 – Raelyn
The gunshot detonates.
I feel it reverberate through the air and hurtle toward me—but it isn’t me it hits.
Konstantin takes the bullet meant for me, stumbling backward with a low groan.
Blood blooms across his shoulder, dark and jagged against the fabric.
But he rises again, teeth clenched, eyes alight with a feral, unyielding fire.
My scream tears out of me, raw and primal, unthinking.
I snatch the evidence case, the steel cold against my palms, and hurl it at Markov. It smashes into his chest, rattling him just long enough for Lev to move like a shadow, flanking him from behind. Dimitri’s shot cracks through the chaos, snapping the weapon from Markov’s grip.
I don’t pause. I rush forward, my pulse a drum in my ears, my hands steady. I grab the fallen gun and raise it, aiming squarely at the man who destroyed my life. Every ounce of fear, fury, and grief coils into this single, precise act.
Markov laughs—a cracked, arrogant sound that echoes off the metal walls.
“You won’t do it,” he sneers. “Like father, like daughter. Too soft.”
Something inside me fractures—and then hardens.
My father’s blood.
The sleepless nights.
Reed’s lies.
Konstantin bleeding for me.
It all slams together in my chest.
I pull the trigger.
The shot drops Markov to the ground with a howl, the bullet tearing into his leg.
He collapses hard, screaming now, the sound ugly and desperate.
I move closer, step by step, the gun still raised, my hands no longer shaking.
Rage floods my veins, sharp and clarifying. Adrenaline hums through every nerve.
He looks up at me—really looks this time—and whatever he sees there steals the rest of his bravado.
“No—wait—” he gasps.
I aim again.
Not because I’m reckless.
Not because I’m cruel.
But because for the first time since my father died, I’m not powerless.
And Markov knows it.
The brothers don’t move.
They stand behind him like sentinels, weapons lowered, watching—waiting. No one stops me. No one rushes me. This choice is mine.
Then Konstantin is there.
At my side. Close enough that I feel his heat. His hand wraps gently around my wrist—not to force it down. Not to guide it up. Just…there. Steady. Solid. Anchoring me to the ground.
“Finish it if you want,” he says quietly, voice rough with pain and blood and truth. “I won’t stop you.”
My breath stutters.
Markov is crying now. Full, humiliating terror. His words tumble over each other—pleas, promises, names, money, power. He swears anything. He offers everything. He looks nothing like the man who ordered my father erased. Nothing like the shadow that hunted me.
I look at him and feel it all—the rage, the grief, the hunger to end it with a single pull of my finger.
And then I feel something else.
Clarity.
Slowly, deliberately, I lower the gun.
The silence that follows is deafening.
“I want justice,” I say, my voice shaking but unbroken. “Not blood.”
Konstantin doesn’t hesitate. His hands close around the weapon, and in one precise motion, he fires. Clean. Lethal. Final.
Markov slumps backward, lifeless, the echo of the shot bouncing off the walls.
The war ends.
I collapse into Konstantin’s arms, trembling—not from fear, but from release, from exhaustion, from the weight of everything finally tipping into closure.
And then I remember—he’s been shot.
I pull back, panic flashing in my chest, fingers tracing the blood staining his shirt.
“We need to go. You’ve been shot.”
He laughs—low, rough, shaking his head. “I’m okay. Don’t you dare freak out on me now.”
I fuss anyway, tugging at his vest, pressing my hands to his shoulder.
He tightens his arms around me despite the wound, and I feel it—solid, unshakable.
“You saved me,” he murmurs into my hair, breath hot against my neck.
I press my forehead to his chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath my hand. “No,” I whisper back, voice trembling. “You saved me long before tonight.”
He tilts his head, curiosity and something softer flickering in his eyes. “How did I save you?”
I take a slow breath, letting the words settle over us. “You took me from that naive life I had. You protected me before the enemy could reach me. You loved me…honored me…made me feel safe, even when everything around us was chaos.”
A slow smile curls over his lips, shadowed by fatigue and blood, yet alive. “That’s nothing compared to the life I’ll give you now,” he murmurs, voice low, almost feral.
I shake my head, voice trembling again. “You’ve already slain all my demons. I don’t want anything else.”
He rolls his eyes, mock exasperation in his glance. “Too late,” he says, as if the universe has already signed the deal.
From the doorway, the brothers’ voices cut through, practical and sharp. “We have to burn the warehouse,” Lev says. “Nothing can be left standing.”
Konstantin exhales, one hand still holding mine, the other brushing across my back. “Then we burn it,” he says, voice carrying the weight of a promise, a warning, and a vow all at once. “Everything Markov touched ends tonight.”
Konstantin releases my hand only long enough to move.
The brothers scatter with practiced ease—Roman splashing accelerant along the walls, Lev snapping open fuel canisters, Dimitri wiring charges with grim efficiency. This isn’t rage. It’s ritual. Clean. Deliberate. An ending they’ve performed before.
Konstantin strikes the lighter.
The flame blooms small and harmless in his palm for half a second—then he flicks it.
Fire catches.
It races along the floor in a hungry line, climbing crates, licking up rusted beams, devouring paper and secrets and lies. The heat rolls outward in a violent breath, forcing me to step back. I do. I don’t look away.
I stand at the edge of the loading bay, arms wrapped around myself, watching the warehouse burn from the inside out.
This is where my father’s truth was buried.
This is where Reed’s betrayal lived.
This is where Markov thought he could own me.
The roof groans. Metal shrieks as it warps. Flames claw upward, turning everything orange and black and unreal. Smoke coils into the night sky like a signal flare.
Konstantin comes back to me, standing slightly in front—always shielding without blocking my view. His hand finds the small of my back, steady, grounding.
I don’t cry.
I watch.
I let the fire take it all—the evidence that’s already been copied, the bloodstains, the ghosts. I let it erase the last place my father suffered.
Behind us, sirens wail somewhere far off. Ahead of us, the building collapses inward with a thunderous roar, sparks exploding like dying stars.
Konstantin leans down, his mouth close to my ear. “It’s over,” he says quietly.
I breathe in smoke and snow and him.
For the first time since my life shattered—I believe it is really over.
We leave the warehouse as it burns behind us, flames licking the night sky—a funeral pyre for a dead enemy. In the car, I lean against Konstantin. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing with mine, firm and grounding, all the way home.
As soon as we reach the mansion, Konstantin lifts my head, brushing hair from my face, and starts moving toward the stairs. I plant my feet firmly. “Call a doctor,” I insist.
“I’m fine,” he says, voice rough but dismissive.
“No,” I counter, voice sharper this time. “You need to be checked.”
The brothers snicker behind us.
Konstantin shoots them a dark look and mutters, “Don’t make a fuss.”
I cross my arms, refusing to relent. “Please. Call a doctor.”
He glances at Nik, expression tight, finally giving in. “Call the doctor,” he says, low, like conceding to me is a private victory.
Nik moves immediately, dialing, and I sink back against Konstantin, feeling the tension drain from both of us.
He yanks me close, chest pressing into mine, eyes dark and curious. “Who taught you to fight like that?” His voice is rough, half amusement, half awe.
I giggle, breath shaking a little. “My dad.”
A shadow crosses his face—soft, fleeting. “For a long time… I thought your father was a traitor,” he admits, voice low, almost confessional. “But he wasn’t. Not really. I—” He stops, shakes his head. “I feel sorry. But…I have forever to make it up with his daughter.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, light, unrestrained. The tension of the night melts just a little. He leans down and kisses me, hard, fast, and I melt into him.
When he pulls back just enough to catch his breath, he smirks. “Do we have to wait for a doctor? Let’s go upstairs.”
I blush, heat spreading across my cheeks. I smack his arm playfully. “You’re insane.”
He laughs, that low, dangerous sound that still makes my heart stutter. “Maybe,” he murmurs, tugging me closer again, “but I’m your kind of insane.”
He’s right.
I’m about to tell him he’s right when he sags against me.
I scream.