Chapter 17 — After the Gunfire
762 Words
The breach happens fast.
Too fast.
Divya is halfway down the corridor when the first gunshot echoes through the estate.
The sound freezes her blood.
Not like in movies. Not distant. Not dramatic.
Real. Loud. Close.
A guard shouts something in Russian. Another shot answers.
Then Rurik’s voice cuts through everything.
“Lock the inner hall!”
She turns the corner just as he grabs her arm and pulls her into a side room, shutting the heavy door behind them.
Her heart is racing so hard she can’t breathe. “They’re inside?!”
“Not for long,” he says, already checking the weapon in his hand.
There’s no panic in him.
Only focus.
Which somehow makes it more terrifying.
More shots ring out. Closer. Then shouting. Then silence.
Thick, awful silence.
Divya’s fingers fist in his shirt without her realizing it. “Don’t go,” she whispers.
His eyes drop to her hand gripping him.
Then back to her face.
“I have to.”
“You could get hurt!”
“So could you.”
That lands between them, heavy and undeniable.
He lifts a hand — hesitates — then brushes his knuckles lightly against her cheek.
The touch is brief.
Reverent.
“I end this,” he says quietly. “Then I come back to you.”
Not if.
When.
He leaves before she can answer.
Ten Minutes Later
It feels like ten hours.
Every second stretches tight with dread.
Then footsteps pound toward the door.
It opens.
Rurik steps in.
There’s blood on his sleeve.
Not his.
Her breath leaves her in a shaky rush. “You’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
But his voice is rougher now. Edges frayed.
She crosses the room before thinking and throws her arms around him.
For a split second, he goes still — like he’s not used to being held instead of feared.
Then his arms wrap around her.
Firm. Protective. Almost crushing.
His face presses into her hair, breath uneven for the first time since she’s known him.
“They won’t come back,” he murmurs.
“You don’t know that,” she whispers.
“I will make sure.”
The promise isn’t dramatic.
It’s lethal.
She pulls back just enough to look at him — at the tension still carved into his features, at the fury he hasn’t fully let go of.
“You scare me,” she admits softly.
His hands loosen like the words hurt.
“I know.”
“But not because you’d hurt me,” she continues. “Because of what you’d do to anyone who tries.”
Something shifts in his eyes.
She reaches up without thinking and touches his jaw, thumb brushing near a small cut she hadn’t noticed before.
“You got this because of me,” she says.
“No,” he replies quietly. “I got this because they think you are my weakness.”
“And are you going to prove them right?”
His gaze drops to her lips again.
This time he doesn’t look away immediately.
“You already did,” he says.
Her breath catches.
The air between them thickens, grief and relief and adrenaline tangling into something deeper.
His hand slides to her waist — not possessive, not demanding — just there, grounding, like he needs to know she’s real.
“You should rest,” he says, but his voice is low, strained.
She doesn’t move away.
Neither does he.
Their foreheads almost touch.
Close enough to feel each other’s breath.
Close enough that one more inch would change everything.
His eyes close briefly, like he’s fighting himself again.
“Divya…” he warns softly.
Not a command.
A plea.
Her fingers tighten slightly in his shirt.
“I’m not scared of you,” she whispers.
That’s what undoes him.
Not innocence.
Not temptation.
Trust.
His hand trembles once at her waist before stilling, grip firming just enough to pull her a fraction closer.
His voice is barely air now.
“If I cross this line,” he says, “there’s no going back to before.”
Her answer is just as quiet.
“Then don’t go back.”
The moment hangs there — fragile, electric, inevitable.
But even now, even with every wall between them shattered by gunfire and fear—
He stops.
His forehead rests against hers instead, eyes closed, breath heavy.
Not because he doesn’t want more.
But because wanting her has never been the same as taking from her.
And somehow…
That restraint burns hotter than anything else could.
- Writer
