The silence pressed against the walls like a living thing. Dominic stood motionless, gun raised, listening to the faint scrape of boots on concrete outside. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, ready to strike.
Adair's heartbeat thundered in her ears. She had seen him kill before, seen him fight, but this moment was different. This time, she was no longer watching from the safety of shadows—she was inside the storm with him.
"Stay behind me," he whispered, eyes never leaving the door.
Her hand touched his arm, trembling but steady. "I won't leave you."
His jaw tightened, torn between fury and something softer. There was no time to argue. The sound came again—closer now. Then, the metallic groan of the warehouse door sliding open.
Three men slipped inside, shadows blending with the darkness. Their movements were careful, deliberate—professionals. One of them whispered into a radio, "Target inside."
Dominic's response was instant. A shot cracked the silence, striking the radio from the man's hand. The others lunged forward, weapons raised. Chaos ignited in the room.
Adair ducked low, pressing herself against the wall as Dominic moved with lethal precision. He dropped one man with a clean shot, then spun, disarming the second in a brutal clash of steel and fists. The third raised his gun toward Dominic—
Adair didn't think. She grabbed the heavy wrench from the workbench and hurled it with all her strength. It struck the man's arm, throwing his aim wide just as Dominic fired. The intruder fell with a guttural cry.
For a moment, there was nothing but the echo of gunfire and Adair's ragged breathing.
Dominic turned to her, eyes blazing. "Adair—"
But whatever words he meant to unleash caught in his throat when he saw her—standing tall, chest heaving, defiance burning in her gaze.
"I told you," she whispered, voice trembling but fierce. "I won't stand in the shadows."
His breath caught. In that instant, under the dim light and the stench of smoke, Dominic saw not weakness, not fragility—but fire. A woman who had chosen him, danger and all.
He lowered his gun, closing the distance between them in two sharp steps. His hand cupped her face, rough but tender, his forehead pressing against hers.
"You're going to get yourself killed," he muttered, voice breaking at the edges.
"Then I'll burn with you," she breathed.
The wolf in him roared against it, but the man—Dominic Wolfe—couldn't resist her. For the first time, he kissed her not out of desperation, but out of surrender.
And outside, unseen in the night, another shadow slipped away into the dark—watching, waiting, carrying word back to the enemy that the Wolfe was no longer fighting alone.