Claire's POV

The air was too still. My stomach twisted with something primal—an instinct screaming danger. Then, the growl of engines tore through the night. Headlights flared, blinding against the darkness. Tires screeched, burning rubber across cracked asphalt. The silence shattered.

Gunfire erupted—sharp, deafening cracks that punched through the air. Sparks spat from metal as bullets tore into crates and concrete. My body moved before my mind could catch up, hitting the ground hard. The pavement bit into my palms, rough and cold, but I barely felt it.

Shouts cut through the chaos—Vera's voice, sharp and commanding. I peeked around the edge of a crate and saw her, a deadly force in motion. She moved through the firestorm like it was hers to control, her gun barking in short, merciless bursts. Men dropped. She didn't flinch.

I should have stayed down. I should have stayed the hell out of it. But my eyes stayed locked on her.

Then I saw him.

A man crouched behind a stack of crates, his stance low, steady. A pistol in his grip, trained directly on Vera.

The breath hitched in my throat. My body screamed to freeze— But my heart— It moved.

"Vera!" I shouted, my voice raw and desperate.

His aim snapped toward me. A flash. A crack.

A white-hot pain exploded in my shoulder, burning and blinding, and the world snapped sideways. The ground slammed into me, knees cracking, palms scraping raw against the pavement. The shock stole my breath, but I barely felt it.

The shooter turned back to Vera, but now she was already moving—already aiming.

A single, sharp shot rang out.

His body jerked. A wet, sickening thud followed as he crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

The air was thick with gunpowder, the scent sharp against the cold. My shoulder burned, but my eyes—my eyes stayed on her.

Vera stood over him, her gun still raised, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. The chaos around her seemed to fade, the gunfire distant, everything narrowing to the space between us.

Then her eyes snapped to me.

And they burned.

I blinked, my body screaming with fire, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Through the haze, I saw him—the shooter. His body sprawled on the pavement, motionless. A clean hole through his skull.

And her.

Vera stood over him, gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel. Her breathing was heavy, but her hands were steady. Her eyes—God, her eyes—were something else entirely. Ice and fire. Fury and something sharper.

Then, her gaze snapped to me.

She was on me in seconds, her boots cutting through the blood-streaked pavement. Her voice, low and sharp, carved through the chaos.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

The world spun, the taste of iron thick in my mouth. My shoulder burned like it was being ripped open again with every heartbeat. The pavement was cold, rough, unforgiving beneath me, but my head—my head felt heavier than all of it.

Then—boots. Quick. Precise. And a voice, razor-edged and unmistakable.

"You idiot."

My eyes flickered open. Vera loomed above me, her face carved from fury, her breath coming fast and sharp—but her eyes. There was something else in them. Something that looked too close to fear.

A wet, rattling breath scraped up my throat, and I forced out, hoarse and half-broken, "You're welcome." A cough tore through my chest, the sting of blood sharp on my tongue. "Twice... in the same week."

Her lips pressed into a tight, furious line. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, voice cutting low, words biting harder than the pain in my shoulder. "I didn't ask you to save me."

The ache burned deep, but the words came anyway—raw, reckless, aching.

"Yeah, well," I rasped, my vision blurring at the edges, "must've... missed the memo... that you wanted to die too."

Her jaw tensed, something cold and sharp flickering behind her eyes. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, another voice cut through.

Gabriel. His tone was clipped, steady, unaffected. "Bullet's still in her shoulder. Clean hit, but she's losing blood fast."

Vera's gaze snapped from my face to her hands—slick and red. Her hands. My blood.

A quiet, furious, "Shit."

Then, colder, sharper: "I don't want her bleeding out. Take her inside."

Panic clawed through the fog in my head, snapping me back. My voice was weak, but the disbelief still cut through. "Inside?" My breath hitched, tight, strained. "Inside where?" I coughed, wincing as fresh pain seared through my shoulder. "Hello? Hospital? You know, those places with doctors and... painkillers?"

Her eyes locked on mine, cold, flinty. "Yeah," she said flatly. "That's not how we do things."

A dry, rasping scoff scraped up my throat. "Oh, great. Criminal healthcare. Do I get a free bullet removal with my stay?"

Before I could argue, before I could do anything, I felt her. Strong. Swift.

Her arms slid beneath me—one under my knees, the other gripping my back—and suddenly, the world shifted. I was weightless. Lifted.

Pain lanced through me, tearing a sharp, strangled gasp from my lips.

"Seriously?!" I groaned, my head lolling against her shoulder. "You couldn't just—ask me for a dance first?"

Her voice, low and sharp near my ear. "Shut. Up."

But her grip—steady, unwavering—never faltered.

Every jolt of her stride sent agony knifing through my body, but my mouth, the part of me that never knew when to quit, kept running. "Y'know," I gasped, voice thin, broken, "this... this is already the worst date I've ever been on."

Vera's voice was ice wrapped in steel. "Keep talking, and it'll be your last."

I coughed, the laugh strangled and pained. "Are you proposing?"

Her jaw tightened, and for a second—a fraction of a second—her voice dipped, something taut beneath the sarcasm.

"I should've left you there," she muttered, half to herself.

But she didn't.

And that—God help me—that felt more dangerous than the bullet in my shoulder.

I felt my body grow heavier, my voice barely a whisper through the haze of pain. "You're... hot," I muttered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "Totally... certifiable."

Vera's grip on me didn't falter. If anything, it tightened, her arms shifting like she was debating whether to drop me or carry me straight to my grave. "Yeah," she said dryly, already sounding exhausted with me, "and you're a pain in my ass."

My lips, cracked and bloody, twitched into the faintest smirk. "You're welcome."

Her sharp exhale was almost a laugh—almost.

"Idiot," she muttered.

But she didn't let go.

The room pressed in around me—cold concrete walls, cracked floors, the stale scent of metal and oil clinging to every breath. A single bulb flickered above, casting jagged shadows, making everything feel sharper, more dangerous.

Vera knelt over me, her sleeves shoved up, hands stained with my blood. Her palm pressed hard against my shoulder, sending a fresh wave of agony through me. My back arched against the floor, breath hissing through my teeth.

Her movements were brutal, precise—no hesitation, no comfort, just the cold efficiency of someone who knew exactly how to hurt and how to keep you alive.

A strangled hiss escaped me, my head thumping back against the concrete. "Didn't know you had such a soft side," I rasped, barely managing the words. "Careful—you'll ruin your reputation."

Her eyes flicked down, cool and unreadable. "You're still bleeding," she said flatly, pressing harder.

I choked out a sharp gasp, my vision going white at the edges. "Maybe I should press harder," she added, voice smooth as glass.

Pain flashed white-hot behind my eyes, but my mouth—reckless as always—kept moving. "Is this your version of tender loving care?" My breath stuttered. "You're really sweeping me off my feet here."

Her hands didn't falter, but her voice dipped lower, smooth and dangerous. "What's your name?"

The question cut through the haze. My chest heaved, my body trembling from pain and adrenaline. She didn't know. Of course, she didn't.

"Claire," I managed, my voice tight but laced with defiance. "Though, since you're wrist-deep in me, I guess we're past introductions."

Her expression didn't shift, but something in her eyes did—honing, filing the name away like it was a puzzle piece she hadn't known was missing. "Well, Claire," she murmured, soft but lethal, "what the hell were you doing there?"

Every nerve burned, but I forced the answer out, my throat raw. "I—" A cough tore through me, sharp and hot. "I overheard Leo. At the café. He was planning something."

The name landed between us like a live grenade. Vera's hands froze. Barely a second. Barely a flicker.

But her eyes—God, her eyes—flashed with something dark and lethal. She said his name like a curse. "Leo."

Her fingers twitched—just the smallest movement—before she smeared my blood across her palm. The room felt smaller. The air too thick. Her silence louder than any gunshot.

Then, her voice—soft, sharp, each word a blade. "Leo sent them." Not a question.

Her jaw tensed, something dangerous flickering beneath her skin. When her eyes snapped back to mine, they cut through me like glass. "How do you know Leo?"

My pulse pounded, the pain dulling under something hotter. I licked my lips, voice rough. "Had the pleasure of being threatened by him." My chest shuddered, the breath shaking as it escaped. "He was talking about a hit. I thought it was on Valeria and Emilia." My throat burned, and the truth ripped out of me before I could stop it. "So I followed."

Vera's eyes sharpened, dissecting, testing every crack in my words. "You thought he was after them." Her voice carried the weight of something that wanted to break.

I nodded, my voice hoarse. "Yeah. Didn't expect you."

Her face was carved from stone, but her eyes—they said everything. A storm behind them, and none of it was about me.

The space between us burned hotter, charged with something sharp and volatile. Her voice slipped into that space, cold and cutting. "So, you followed him. Alone. Pissed of a sniper. And then today you take a bullet for me?"

Pain clawed through my body, but my lips curled into something wry and reckless. "Yeah. Stupid, I know."

Her gaze pressed tighter, and her voice dipped, intimate and merciless. "That doesn't explain why. If you thought he was after Valeria, I'd understand. But you found me." Her eyes didn't leave mine. Didn't let me breathe. "So why did you choose to save me?"

The heat crept up my neck, uninvited and undeniable. My body was on fire, and my pulse—God, my pulse—betrayed me. My mouth opened—then closed.

I felt the burn behind my ribs, the words too tight, too sharp. So I did what I always did—I shrugged, the movement weak but defiant. "Dunno," I muttered, my voice cracking. "Guess I'm just bad at minding my own business."

Her eyes stayed on me—cold, unblinking, pulling at something I wasn't ready to give.

Then, soft and dry, her voice curled at the edges. "Idiot."

But it felt warmer than it should.

"Yeah, you mentioned that."

The needle pierced my skin again, sharp and merciless. I clenched my teeth, tasting copper as my cracked lips split, but I refused to scream.

Vera's voice, detached and clinical, cut through the haze. "Hold still."

"Yeah," I gasped, the words barely a breath. "I'll just—" The needle bit deep, and my body spasmed with pain. "—add that to my to-do list. Right next to 'don't get shot.'"

Then—relief. Sharp, sudden, and almost worse than the pain itself. The bullet was out.

No anesthesia. No mercy. Just her—calm, cold, and precise.

I hissed through my teeth, the pain blurring my vision. "You always this gentle, or am I just special?"

Vera's voice, smooth as glass, didn't pause. "You're getting my best bedside manner."

The thread pulled tight, and a gasp tore from my throat. "Lucky me," I rasped, my voice laced with pain and venom.

Her hands stayed steady, movements sharp and efficient. I hated how close she was—how I could feel the heat of her skin, how every drag of her fingers against me felt like control, not care.

But something cold twisted in my chest. She wasn't just fixing me. She was studying me. Every wince. Every flicker of pain. Every truth I couldn't hide.

A rough swipe of alcohol over the wound—another burn, another hiss. Vera's voice, flat and efficient: "Done." She tied the bandage tight—too tight, I was sure—before leaning back on her heels, her eyes unreadable and her hands still stained with my blood.

I felt the weight of her gaze, and then—

"Go home."

I blinked, still half-dazed. "What?" My voice cracked, disbelieving. "That's it?"

Vera's eyes flashed something sharp. "I'm letting you walk out of here. Call it my way of saying thank you for saving my life."

I stared at her, the ache in my body burning alongside the disbelief. "Oh? How sweet." My lips curled, voice laced with sarcasm. "You patch me up, and now you're kicking me out?"

Her tone dropped, cold and final. "If I see you again, I'll put a bullet in your head."

The words hit like ice down my spine. I felt the tension coil in my ribs—anger, confusion, and something I couldn't place. "Seriously?" I rasped. "If you were planning to toss me out, why not—oh, I don't know—take me to a hospital instead of playing 'surgeon' and torturing me?"

Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a warning—cold, sharp, and cutting through me more than the scalpel she didn't use. "Because," she said smoothly, "when a person's in pain, they speak the truth."

My breath hitched . "You're interrogating me?"

My stomach dropped, heat burning up my spine—anger, sharp and immediate. But under it—

God help me—admiration.

Because it was cold. Calculated. So Vera.

A sharp, hollow laugh ripped from my throat, rough with pain. "You ruthless—" I cut off with a wince, teeth gritting. "Asshole."

The thread snapped with a final, clean tug. Vera leaned back, her eyes cool and sharp as steel. "And you didn't disappoint."

Fury clawed through me, raw and bright. I shoved against the table with my good arm, my body screaming, my eyes blazing into hers. "You could've just asked, you sadistic—"

Her lips tugged into something cold and amused. "But where's the fun in that?"

The heat in my chest swirled into something reckless, something wild. "You know," I rasped, "If you wanted me screaming your name, there were easier ways."

Her eyes flicked with something—too fast to catch. But her voice stayed cold. "This isn't a game you want to play."

I felt my body tremble—anger, pain, and something I couldn't name. "Funny," I spat, "I thought I already was."

Vera straightened, wiping her hands clean with a slow, measured calm. "It's over," she said, voice flat. "You got your warning. Go home."

"Agh— Asshole!" I swung my purse straight into her chest.

A metallic click—sharp, familiar.

I looked up—and there was Gabriel, gun raised.

Again.

My head lolled back with a groan. "Seriously, dude?" My voice was rough, dripping with exasperation. "What is your obsession with killing me?"

Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "You're a loose end."

"Loose—?!" I sputtered, pain and disbelief mixing into something almost hysterical. "I saved her life! Twice! Are you guys allergic to gratitude or something?"

The tension in the air was razor-thin— But then—

Vera's voice, sharp and cutting through the room: "Gabriel."

He didn't lower the gun. "She hit you."

Vera's eyes—cool and full of something dangerous—landed on me, and her lips, barely moving, curled just slightly. "She's got a bad habit of doing stupid things."

A pause. A shift.

"But she's not dying. Not today anyway."

Gabriel's jaw tightened— Then, with a sharp breath, the barrel lowered.

I let out a slow, shaking breath, my pulse still thundering. "Gee. Thanks," I muttered. "Feel so safe."

Vera's gaze flicked to me—cold, assessing, and something unreadable beneath it. "You're still an idiot."

I smirked through the haze of pain, my voice hoarse but steady. "Yeah?" I rasped. "Well... I'm the idiot who saved your ass."

Her eyes, sharp and edged with something dangerous, narrowed.

I should've hated her for what she just pulled—

But God help me—

I couldn't stop admiring how perfectly she played the game.

Vera's POV

The sharp scent of blood clung to my skin, and the room felt too quiet now that the chaos had settled. The only sound was the slow, steady drip of crimson hitting the floor. Claire's warmth had barely faded from my hands, but the tension in my chest hadn't.

A voice, low and clipped, cut through the silence. "You should've killed her."

I didn't turn. Gabriel's eyes were on my back, his tone flat, practical—like he was stating the weather. But I knew him well enough to hear the edge beneath it. "She knows too much," he added, stepping closer. "About you. About us."

I let the silence stretch, the weight of his words settling in the space between us. My fingers brushed over the cooling slickness of blood on my knuckles—hers. She was reckless. Stupid. Irritating as hell. But she'd saved my life. And more importantly, she interested me.

Without looking at him, I answered, my voice cold and smooth. "She's reckless, not stupid." I wiped my hands clean with slow, measured movements. "She had every chance to run—chose a bullet instead." My lips curled slightly, amused and hard. "That's rare. Even if it's idiotic."

Gabriel's voice sharpened. "Rare gets you killed." A beat. "You should've put her down while she was weak."

I turned my head just enough for my eyes to catch his. "She saved my life." My voice dropped, soft but edged with iron. "You don't kill someone who pulls you out of the line of fire. Not without a reason."

His jaw tightened, and I saw the flicker of disagreement flash in his eyes. "Then what's your play? You're letting her walk out with everything she knows. If she runs to Valeria—"

I cut him off, my voice cool and decisive. "Let her."

A pause. His eyes narrowed. "You're sure about that?"

My lips curled into something cold. "Valeria is no longer part of the game. For now, we'll see what she does with what she knows." My gaze flicked sideways. "Some people break under pressure. Others? They become... useful."

Gabriel's voice dropped, heavier now. "Or we'll see what Leo does to her."

The room felt colder, the air tight with something heavy and unseen. Gabriel's words still hung, sharp and pointed.

"Or we'll see what Leo does to her."

My eyes narrowed, and my voice came out low, edged with ice. "How would Leo know she warned me?"

Gabriel's expression barely shifted, but there was something in his eyes—something knowing. "You think the sniper didn't see her through his scope?" His tone was calm, almost chiding. "Come on, Vera."

I shook my head, cold calculation slicing through my thoughts. "No. Her headlights were on." My voice was firm, certain. "There's no way he could've seen her clearly through that glare."

Gabriel's lips pressed into a thin line, his voice dropping. "And you're assuming he left right away. That he didn't linger."

The idea sat between us, cold and bitter.

My jaw tightened, and something dark, sharp, and final burned behind my voice. "Leo won't hurt her."

"Why?" Gabriel's eyes flicked to mine, a look passing through them—questioning.

"Because if he killed her because she helped me, it means he won a round and that won't happen." I took a step closer toward him.

I met his gaze, my voice cutting and cold. "Leo will not hurt her." A beat. "Am I clear?"

The air seemed to thin under the weight of my words.

Gabriel's eyes held mine for a long second. Then he gave a single, slow nod. "Clear."

Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the silence.

I stayed where I was, the chill of the room biting against my skin. My fingers curled, the memory of Claire's warmth—her blood—still there.

Claire's POV

The night stretched on endlessly by the time I finally stumbled through my apartment door. Every step was heavier than the last, my legs trembling, my body dragging under the weight of exhaustion and pain. The adrenaline that had kept me standing, kept me moving, had burned out completely, leaving only raw fire in my shoulder and an ache that ran so deep it felt like it had settled into my bones.

My fingers barely had the strength to turn the key, but I forced it, shoving the door open and letting the darkness swallow me whole.

No lights. No sounds. Just the muffled click of the lock behind me and the sharp, metallic scent of blood clinging to my skin. I didn't bother flipping the switch. I couldn't. My body moved on instinct—one hand against the wall, the other pressing against the throbbing heat beneath my bandages. My apartment felt smaller, suffocating, like the night was creeping in with me, pressing against my ribs.

I barely made it to the couch before my legs gave out. The room tilted as I sank into the cushions, a broken sound catching in my throat as my shoulder flared with new agony. My breath came in shallow pulls, my throat dry and raw from everything I hadn't said. My eyes slipped shut, and darkness dragged me under.

Heat. Heavy and suffocating. It crawled under my skin, burning from the inside out.

I was drowning in it.

My sheets clung to me, damp with sweat, but I shivered beneath them, the fever burrowing deep into my bones. I tried to push myself up—failed. Tried again— The room spun, the world tipping sideways, and I collapsed back against the mattress, my body giving up entirely.

My lips cracked, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Shit."

I didn't know how long I laid there, trapped between fever dreams and reality. Time blurred—shadows shifting, heat rising, something cool pressing against my shoulder. The sharp sting of antiseptic, the ghost of careful hands. My mind swam through the haze, but something felt off.

A presence.

Not Vera.

I forced my eyes open.

Valeria.

The sight of her hit like a punch to the ribs. My breath hitched, my fevered brain struggling to make sense of her standing there, eyes dark with something sharp and unreadable.

"Val..." I rasped, her name soft and raw on my lips.

Her brows pulled tight, her jaw clenched so hard I could see the tension in it. "What happened, Claire?"

The weight of her question pressed against my ribs. I could've lied to anyone else. Not to her.

I swallowed against the burn in my throat, forcing the words out. "Someone... gave me a hickey."

My lips twitched, thin and weak, but the joke was there. Barely.

Her expression didn't shift.

"What are you doing here?" I croaked, trying for casual, but my voice betrayed me, hoarse and small.

"Emilia was worried sick," she said, her voice clipped, but underneath, something cracked. "You didn't show up to work. Didn't answer your phone. So..." She hesitated, glancing behind her, then exhaled sharply. "I came to check. You, uh—need a new door, by the way. I kinda... broke yours."

A rough, painful chuckle scraped from my throat. "Charming."

But her face didn't soften.

"Claire."

My name. A warning. A demand.

Her voice was lower now, the warmth gone, replaced by something heavier.

"What. Happened."

The words weighed more than they should. I could feel the edge in them, the way they cut through the fever, the way they stripped away any chance of avoiding this conversation.

I sighed through the ache, my voice thin and cracked but real. "Leo. I saw him at the café. Thought he was... after you. Or Emilia. So I followed."

Her eyes flashed, sharp as a blade. "And?"

My throat tightened. The heat of the memory burned as much as the fever. "That's when I saw... Vera." My voice faltered, but I pushed through it. "She was—about to get shot."

Silence.

Then, her voice—low, furious, and shaking with something sharp and raw.

"You took a bullet for her?"

It wasn't a question.

It was an accusation.

Her eyes burned—dark and wild, lit from within by something I couldn't place but felt like anger wrapped around fear.

My pulse throbbed against my bandages, and my voice, cracked and stubborn, pushed through the ache. "I thought you'd be glad," I said, breath hitching, tight and broken. "You're so damn protective of her you wouldn't even tell me where she was—"

"You idiot!"

What's up with the Castillo sisters and calling me an idiot.

The word cut through the room like a blade. It wasn't the insult. It was the way her voice broke underneath it.

She wasn't just angry. She was terrified. Her voice dipped lower, frayed and raw. "You're more family to me than her."

The air stilled. Heat flooded my chest, but it wasn't fever. It was something deeper, heavier, something I wasn't ready to name.

"I wasn't protecting her from you—" Her voice cracked, something brittle and breaking underneath it. "I was protecting you. From that life."

My breath hitched.

"I didn't want you walking that path," she said, her eyes locking onto mine, fierce and unflinching.

The words hit— No. They sank.

I felt the burn rise behind my eyes, and my lips curled, instinct kicking in like armor. My voice came, rasping, barely holding together but still laced with defiance—

"Damn..." I croaked, my breath barely there. "...so you do love me."

Her eyes narrowed instantly, her rawness snapping back behind something dry and unimpressed.

"Shut up."

But the tension cracked.

I felt it—like something that had been locked up tight had finally breathed.

A pained smirk tugged weakly at my lips, my voice soft and teasing. "Admit it. You love me. I'm—" my ribs protested with a cough, "—your best friend."

Her eyes flickered, the fire behind them shifting, and her lips pressed into something not quite a smile.

"I never said anything," she replied, flat and clipped, "about us being friends."

The words landed—cold, defensive, meant to push me back—

But I saw it.

The slip behind her steel.

The thing she wouldn't say.

My voice came, weak and scraped, but stripped raw of any walls. "Right. Of course you didn't." I coughed again, my body screaming, but I kept my eyes on hers. "Because you're Valeria Castillo. Too cool. Too tough. And way too emotionally constipated to admit you care about me."

Her jaw tightened, knuckles flexing as she wrung out the bloodied cloth. "You're still running that mouth, even half-dead."

"It's a talent," I rasped, my breath shallow. "But you didn't deny it."

Her fingers twitched against the cloth. "Deny what?"

"That you care."

The words hung. Thick. Fragile.

Her eyes flashed, sharp and hard. "I'm here, aren't I?"

The heat in my chest swelled—something sharp, something terrifyingly warm. My lips parted, the usual quip ready—

But nothing came. Because it hit. It hit me— Like a punch I didn't see coming—

That she meant it. That she wasn't here out of duty, or guilt, or some cold sense of protection.

She was here—because I mattered. More than I ever knew. More than she'd ever say.

My throat went tight. My mouth opened— But no words came.

I felt my voice— The thing I always had— Fail me.

A rare, terrifying silence—where a joke should have been. She saw it— I knew she did.

Because her eyes, fierce and dark, softened—just barely—into something I couldn't name.