Chapter 8 #4
I step through the door and back into the chaos of the casino. And I’m not done yet.
The music still plays overhead—bass pounding, lights flickering—but something’s shifted. People notice the blood on my hands, the dagger clutched tight in my grip, and the rippling tension that radiates off my body like heat from a flame.
Eyes widen. Gasps ring out. But I don’t stop.
My heels hit the floor hard and fast, the click echoing louder than the music in my ears as I start moving—no, running —toward Rafael’s table.
He sees me before I reach him. He’s leaning back in his chair, cigar forgotten in his hand, drink half-lifted to his lips. His eyes lock on mine, trailing down to the blood on my arms, the crimson-streaked dagger in my hand. I see the exact second something cold flashes through his gaze.
He stands fast, chair scraping back. “Isabella?—”
I don’t let him finish. Because something behind him—something outside —catches my attention.
The windows behind his table rise tall and wide, offering a perfect view of the building across the street. And there— barely visible but unmistakably there—is a silhouette. Perched. Focused. Still.
Sniper.
I know the signs. I’ve been the one behind the scope before.
And then— Red. A faint glint of fabric. A glimmer in the light.
A mark.
My breath catches. “Down!” I scream, voice tearing through my throat as I drop the dagger and launch forward.
My body collides with Rafael’s, knocking him off balance just as the shot pierces the glass.
The world erupts. The bullet slices clean through where his heart would’ve been—shattering the crystal glass, embedding into the wood just behind him.
I land hard against him as we crash to the floor. Screams ripple out across the casino. Chaos explodes like gunpowder thrown on fire. Viktor’s men leap to their feet, drawing weapons. Dealers duck. Patrons scream, running in all directions.
Rafael grips my arms tight, flipping us so he’s above me, shielding me automatically.
“What the fuck —” he growls, voice low and dangerous as hell, but his hands are still checking me for wounds even as he stares down into my face. “Are you hit?!”
I shake my head quickly, breath heavy. “No. But you would’ve been.”
His jaw clenches, rage flashing like lightning in his eyes. “You saw him?” he asks.
I nod. “Top of the building across. East window. Red cloth, left sleeve. Sniper’s gone by now.”
He curses in Russian under his breath. Another shot rings out somewhere in the distance— inside this time. Screams rise again. His guards return fire. Viktor’s men are moving—some ducking, some advancing.
“Fuck, it’s starting,” I hiss. “It’s Viktor. I stabbed him. He told me everything. He’s not dead—but this is retaliation.”
Rafael’s eyes darken. But he doesn’t waste time. He grabs my wrist. “Get up.”
I do. Fast. He doesn’t let go.
He grips my hand tight, pulling me with him as he moves through the chaos. Security is yelling. Glass crunches underfoot. People push past us. But Rafael doesn’t stop until we burst through a side hallway, the noise dimming as the door swings shut behind us.
His hand is still on mine. And I’m still shaking.
But not from fear. From the fact that I just saved the devil’s life. And we both know it.
The second the heavy door shuts behind us, the noise dulls into a low, distant roar. Gunfire. Screams. Shouted orders muffled by thick walls and reinforced steel. But none of it feels real.
Not compared to the silence in this room. Not compared to him.
Rafael’s grip doesn’t ease until he locks the door behind us. Thick steel bolts into place with a solid clunk . I hear it. I feel it.
We’re alone.
My breath catches in my throat as I take in the space—dark wood panels, liquor shelves lining one wall, and a single leather couch beneath a moody chandelier. No windows. One way in. One way out.
He moves fast. Shoulders tense, he walks across the room and taps the mic hooked behind his ear. “Nikolai. Now.”
I stand still, chest rising and falling as I try to process what I just did. Blood sticks to my hands, drying between my fingers. My dress clings to my skin in places, the adrenaline starting to fade but the fire in my chest still blazing.
“Status,” Rafael growls.
Nikolai’s voice crackles in his earpiece, too low for me to hear at first, but Rafael’s eyes narrow with every word. He paces near the liquor shelf, expression sharp enough to wound.
“Dead?” he asks. “No—fuck. Not yet. Find him. Viktor had shooters posted. Two down already. I want the rest caught alive .”
I don’t move. Not until Rafael finally ends the call.
He pulls the mic off, drops it onto the counter, then turns. His eyes meet mine. And for the first time tonight, the silence feels… heavy.
He doesn’t speak. Not immediately. Just stares. And I stare back.
The blood. The chaos. The fact that I had almost killed for him, seconds before a bullet meant for his heart shattered the world around us.
He should thank me. He should question me. He should ask why. Instead, he just steps forward—slow, deliberate.
“You stabbed Viktor?” His voice is low now. Controlled.
I nod once. “He told me the plan. Thought I’d be flattered.”
His jaw flexes. A humorless sound escapes his throat, somewhere between a breath and a scoff. “I should’ve known.”
“You underestimated me.” My voice is steady, but something wild stirs behind it. “Again.”
“You found a target and you brought me a corpse.”
“He’s not dead,” I say. “But he will be.”
His eyes flash, and for a moment—just a moment—he looks almost impressed. “Why?” he asks. “Why save me?”
I tilt my head. “Don’t worry. You’re still the only one I’m planning to kill.”
That makes him pause. Still. And then—He laughs. Quiet. Dangerous.
Not the kind that carries amusement. The kind that burns under the surface. Like I just handed him a match and dared him to light it.
He steps closer. Slowly. His gaze drags over the blood on my hands, the fire in my eyes, the cut on my shoulder that never fully healed.
“You really were made for this world,” he murmurs.
“No,” I whisper. “I was made to burn it.”
His eyes linger on mine. And in that second, behind a locked door with gunfire in the distance and blood drying beneath my nails, I know what this is. A reckoning.
His gaze drops once—slow and deliberate—trailing my form. Then back to my face.
Rafael Romanov doesn’t thank people. He doesn’t trust them. But he just let me save his life. And now we’re locked in the fallout.
His words settle deep into my chest like smoke curling around my ribs. “You really were made for this world.”
But it’s what I said after that haunts louder.
The air between us pulses, heavier than the blood that once dripped from my blade. He doesn’t move at first—not really—but his gaze… his gaze doesn’t leave mine for a second.
And mine doesn’t stray either.
We’re standing in this silence like it was built just for us. Like the whole fucking world outside this door is fire and ash and gunpowder—and in here, it’s just this. Him. Me. The war between.
My hands are still sticky with Viktor’s blood. My heart’s still pounding from the shot I dodged. And Rafael… he’s looking at me like I’m the one thing in this place he can’t put into a box. Or bury.
His steps are slow. Controlled. Measured like a king deciding if he’ll spare the wild card that just changed the rules of the game.
But when he stops in front of me—so close I can feel the warmth of him—I don’t back down. I lift my chin instead.
“You shouldn’t have come for me,” he says softly.
“You’re welcome.”
“You could’ve let that bullet tear through me.”
“Believe me,” I murmur, “I considered it.”
And that makes him smile—but it’s that dark kind of smile. The kind that says he wants to peel me apart just to see how far I’ll let him go before I draw my blade again.
His hand lifts. Slow. Almost thoughtful. He brushes his knuckles against my cheek before his palm cups the side of my face, his thumb ghosting over my skin with the kind of gentleness I didn’t know he had.
“Why do you keep doing this?” he asks, voice so low it sounds like a secret. “Saving me. Even when you hate me.”
I stare up at him. My breath shallow. My heart loud. “Maybe I’m keeping you alive,” I whisper, “so I can be the one to end you.”
He breathes in slow. His eyes drop to my mouth. That heat simmers hotter now, wrapping around us, choking everything else out. His other hand lifts, fingers brushing the curve of my waist, slow and deliberate. Like he wants to know how I feel before he makes a move.
“I’ve bled for less than the way you look at me,” he murmurs.
I can’t breathe. Don’t want to. Because if I move, if I blink, I’ll lose this moment—and I want to know how far I can push before it breaks.
He leans in. His forehead almost touching mine. His breath warm against my lips.
And I want him. God, I want him.
But I don’t give him the satisfaction of closing the gap. “I’m not your weakness,” I murmur, lashes low.
“No,” he says. “ You’re my war .”
And just like that—The door unlocks.
I freeze. His hand drops away instantly. His posture straightens, expression hardens. The mask snaps back into place like it never fell.
“Raf, we got word from one of Viktor’s?—”
He stops. Dead. Mid-sentence.
Because I’m standing in front of Rafael. Close. Flushed. Eyes still burning. And Rafael?
He hasn’t moved a step away from me.
Behind Nikolai, Kellan and Ash barrel in. Kellan’s jaw tightens the second he sees me. Ash doesn’t say a word, but his hand rests on the butt of his weapon, eyes flicking between Rafael and me like he’s ready to burn the room down himself.
And Nikolai?
He just stares between us. Like he walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to see.