The moment Damon pulled Alina into the waiting black SUV, the tires screeched against the pavement as the driver floored the gas.
"Where the hell is Adrian?" Damon barked into his earpiece, his grip tight around Alina’s wrist.
"We lost him in the smoke," one of his men responded. "He must have had an escape route planned."
Damon slammed his fist against the seat. "Son of a—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply before turning to Alina.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was tight, controlled, but his eyes—stormy and full of concern—betrayed his emotions.
Alina shook her head, still trying to catch her breath. "No… just shaken."
His fingers brushed over her cheek, his touch lingering. "You did good back there."
She swallowed hard, her mind still reeling from the chaos of the last few minutes.
