Eliana's breath came fast, her arms trembling under the weight of the gun. The metal felt slick in her palms, the smell of gun oil sharp in the cold air.
Across from her, Alfonso stood still, one hand half-raised, eyes locked on hers. The soft warmth from the house poured over them both, cutting the night in two—the light behind him, the darkness clinging to her.
"Eliana," he said quietly, his voice smooth again, coaxing. "Put it down."
She didn't answer. Her chest heaved, the barrel of the gun wavering between his heart and his throat. Behind him, she could hear the shuffle of boots, the crackle of radios. The guards were spreading out.
Then one of them stepped forward. He wasn't holding his weapon up—he was dragging someone.
Elliot.
Eliana's eyes widened.
He was barely standing, his shirt torn open, his face streaked with blood. The guard kept a firm hand locked in his hair, forcing his head up.
"Drop it," the man barked. "Drop the gun now!"
Her grip faltered.
