The footsteps broke the spell.
They came echoing through the corridor, steady, deliberate, like a clock counting down to something inevitable.
Tristan's body went rigid. The heat of his kiss was still smeared across Lilac's mouth, his hands still half-clenched as if unsure whether to let her go or pin her tighter. But the second those sounds reached him, he froze into steel. His eyes, which only moments ago had burned with something raw and feral, went cold. Calculating.
He dropped her wrists, but not her entirely. His hand found hers as though it belonged there, and he tugged her into motion.
"Stay behind me," he murmured.
The words were clipped, meant for obedience, not reassurance. Lilac didn't argue, though her heart wasn't obeying his command. It was still hammering from the kiss, from the press of his body, from the way he'd said fuck everyone like he meant to burn down the world.
Her lips tingled. She wanted to touch them, to see if they were as bruised as they felt, but she couldn't. His grip was iron around her hand, dragging her in his wake as he stalked forward, quiet but quick.
The corridor stretched long and pale under flickering lights. The sound of pursuit grew closer — more than one pair of footsteps now, two, three, maybe more.
"Tristan—" she whispered.
"I know." His tone was a blade. "Keep your voice down."
She bit her lip hard, trying to swallow the storm inside her. It wasn't just fear making her tremble. That was the part she hated — the Syndicate was coming, but she wasn't thinking about escape. She was thinking about his mouth. About the way he'd kissed her like she was the only thing left in the world worth wanting.
Focus, Lilac. Focus.
Tristan pulled her around a sharp corner. The hallway narrowed here, lined with old brick, pipes jutting from the ceiling. He stopped suddenly, his body tense, and pressed her back against the wall. Instinct flared — memory of just minutes ago when he'd pinned her here, lips harsh and demanding. But this time his arm barred across her waist, protective, his head angled as he listened.
The footsteps had slowed. Whoever they were, they were close enough to know something was off.
Tristan leaned down, his mouth brushing her ear as he whispered, "We've got thirty seconds before they turn this corner. Move when I do."
Lilac nodded quickly, though his breath on her skin made her shiver for an entirely different reason. She wanted to shove him away, to hiss at him for what he'd done, for how he'd undone her. But the words stuck, trapped between survival and the memory of his kiss.
He grabbed her hand again and yanked open a side door she hadn't even noticed. Inside was a cramped maintenance room, shadows heavy and thick. He pulled her in, shut the door silently, and pressed her against it — his body shielding hers.
The air in the room was suffocating. Too small, too close. His chest rose and fell against hers, his hand still clamped over hers against the wood. She could feel every beat of his pulse through his palm.
Outside, the footsteps drew nearer. Voices this time — low, sharp, speaking in a language she didn't understand.
Lilac tried to breathe quietly, but each inhale dragged in his scent. Smoke. Leather. Something darker, metallic, almost like blood. It filled her lungs, her head, making it impossible to think.
She tilted her chin, whispering, "We can't stay here long—"
Tristan's eyes snapped down to hers, silencing her instantly. His gaze was knife-sharp, commanding, but beneath it something flickered. The same dangerous pull that had nearly destroyed them minutes ago.
They were pressed so close she could feel the vibration of his whisper when he spoke. "Quiet. They'll hear us."
Lilac's heart was loud enough she was sure the Syndicate could hear it anyway.
The voices outside moved past slowly. A pause. A mutter. Then the footsteps carried on.
Tristan didn't move until the silence settled, heavy and convincing. Even then, he lingered — his body still braced against hers, his hand still trapping hers against the door.
She swallowed hard. "You can let go now."
His jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he wouldn't. But then he exhaled sharply and stepped back, creating inches of space that felt like miles.
Lilac hugged her arms around herself, suddenly cold. Not from the air — from the loss of him.
Tristan raked a hand through his dark hair, pacing the small space once before stopping in front of her again. His storm-grey eyes locked on her.
"We need to get out of here," he said.
Lilac wanted to scream. That's it? That's all you're going to say? After that kiss, after pinning me to the wall like I was the only thing you couldn't resist? Just "we need to get out of here"?
But the words stayed buried, because a part of her didn't want the answer.
Instead, she forced her voice steady. "Fine. Where do we go?"
"There's an exit three levels down. But we'll have to pass through Syndicate territory to reach it."
Her stomach dropped. "That's suicide."
His lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Only if you hesitate."
She hated him, she really did — the arrogance, the control, the way he seemed to already know how this would end. And yet when he opened the door again and held out his hand, she took it.
Because despite everything, she trusted him.
They moved fast, keeping low, shadows their only cover. Twice they nearly ran into Syndicate men — once ducking behind a stack of crates, another time pressed flat against the wall while flashlights swept by. Each time Tristan's hand found hers, grounding her even as her thoughts spun.
It was impossible not to remember the way those same hands had pinned her wrists. The way his mouth had claimed hers with a violence that still left her shaking.
She was supposed to be terrified of the Syndicate. But the truth was, the most dangerous thing in this building was Tristan Caine.
They reached a stairwell, spiraling downward into darkness. Tristan moved first, his footsteps soundless. Lilac followed, gripping the railing to keep steady. Somewhere above, the Syndicate voices returned — closer now, urgent.
Halfway down, Tristan stopped abruptly. He turned, one hand shooting out to steady her as she nearly collided with him.
His palm splayed against her hip. Heat flared instantly, burning through her clothes.
Her breath caught.
"Don't freeze," he said quietly, his face inches from hers. "If you freeze, they'll catch you. Do you understand?"
She nodded quickly, though she wasn't sure if she was trembling from fear or him.
"Good." His hand lingered half a second longer before pulling away.
By the time they reached the bottom level, Lilac's nerves were frayed raw. The hallway stretched long and empty toward a steel door. Freedom.
But freedom was never that simple.
As they crossed the last stretch, shadows peeled themselves from the walls. Four, five, six men — Syndicate operatives, faces hidden, weapons drawn.
Lilac froze.
Tristan shoved her behind him instantly, his stance shifting into something lethal. One hand hovered near his coat — she knew there was a weapon there.
The leader stepped forward, voice low and amused. "Tristan Caine."
The way he said the name made Lilac's blood run cold. They knew him. Of course they did.
But then the man's gaze slid past Tristan, landing squarely on her.
"And the girl," he said. "Lilac Ambrose."
Lilac's stomach dropped.
They knew her name.
Her knees threatened to give, but Tristan's hand shot back, gripping hers tight, steadying her. His voice, when he spoke, was colder than she'd ever heard.
"You're not touching her."
The Syndicate man only smiled. "We already have."
And the corridor filled with shadows as more men stepped forward, blocking every path of escape .