The cold night air did nothing to clear the ringing in Damien’s ears. It was a high-pitched whine, a relentless chorus to the pounding in his skull and the sharper, burning ache along his ribs.
He leaned against the sedan. The warehouse behind him was a silent tomb now, the echoes of gunfire and shouts replaced by the quiet, efficient movements of his men as they cleaned up.
They’d won, technically. The Ravens’ operatives were dead or captured. But the victory was ashes in his mouth.
He’d been slow. Distracted.
The thought was a poison. In the middle of a raid, his mind had flickered to Rachel’s worried face, when he left. A ghost of warmth in a cold place.
And when the knife came for his side, it wasn’t an opponent’s face he saw, but the memory of Leo’s delighted gasp as the puppy li
