The night air was heavy with rain, the streets glistening under the glow of weak streetlamps. Adair walked fast, her chest tight, her thoughts louder than the city around her.
Dominic's voice still echoed in her head.
To me… I don't know.
She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she could hold in the pieces of her heart before they shattered completely. She needed space, air, anything to remind her she was more than Victor Moretti's cursed bloodline.
But shadows followed her.
The first sign was the echo of boots. Slow. Deliberate. Too steady to be coincidence.
Adair froze, pulse spiking.
Then they emerged—three men stepping from the alley, another two closing in from behind. Faces hidden under dark hoods, the glint of steel catching the lamplight.
"Running won't help, princess," one of them sneered, voice dripping with menace. "Your father's sins are our inheritance. And you…" His smile widened. "You're the prize."
Adair's breath caught. Her father's past. Dominic's doubt. And now this.
She backed away, heart hammering, until her shoulders brushed the cold brick wall.
"Stay away from me," she hissed, though her voice shook.
The man laughed, stepping closer. "Or what? You'll scream? Dominic Wolfe isn't here to save you now."
The name lit fire in her chest. Dominic. Even in her anger, her fear, she could not separate herself from him.
And then—like an answer to her unspoken plea—there he was.
Dominic stepped out of the shadows at the mouth of the alley, his presence hitting like a storm breaking. His coat was dark, his eyes darker, burning with the kind of rage that made even the bravest men hesitate.
"I wouldn't finish that sentence," he said, voice low and lethal.
The men stiffened, but didn't back down. One raised a knife toward Adair's throat. "She's Moretti's blood. You should be the last man defending her."
Something dangerous flickered in Dominic's gaze, a battle between reason and instinct. For a heartbeat, Adair feared he might hesitate—just as he had in the warehouse.
But then he moved.
A blur of violence, controlled and merciless. The first man hit the pavement before he even registered the strike. Another fell with a broken wrist, his knife clattering uselessly.
By the time the last thug staggered backward, Dominic had him pinned against the wall, fist twisted in his collar. "Touch her again," Dominic growled, "and I'll make sure you beg for death."
The man choked, eyes wide, before Dominic threw him into the gutter like trash.
Silence fell. The alley reeked of blood and fear.
Adair stood frozen, her chest heaving, tears streaking her cheeks. She wanted to run, to demand answers—but when Dominic turned to her, she saw the war in his eyes.
Anger. Love. Doubt. Possession.
He stepped closer, his voice rough. "I should hate you for the blood in your veins." His hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face to his. "But when I see you in danger, Adair, hate is the one thing I can't feel."
Her heart stuttered. The world could burn, enemies could circle, but in that moment she knew—Dominic Wolfe would fight everything, even himself, before he let her go.