The tension in the air was thick enough to suffocate. The battle in the streets had ended, but Vincent had slipped through their fingers like a ghost. Alina’s heartbeat refused to settle as she sat in the dimly lit safehouse, her fingers clenched into tight fists. The room was eerily quiet except for the occasional creak of the old wooden floor.
Damon paced near the window, his jaw locked, eyes dark with fury. Rafe and Marco stood nearby, their faces grim as they processed the failed ambush.
“He was right there,” Damon muttered, his voice dangerously low. “I had a clear shot.”
“But you didn’t take it,” Rafe pointed out. “You hesitated.”
Damon’s glare was lethal. “I don’t hesitate.”
Marco exhaled. “Then what happened out there?”
Alina knew the answer before Damon even spok
