The Breaking Point

When control falters, desire and danger blur.

Adrian....

The night was deceptively calm, the city lights flickering like distant fireflies against the velvet darkness. The tension in the car, however, was anything but calm. Celeste sat beside me, her posture rigid, her gaze locked on the road ahead. 

We were on our way to a meeting—one that should have been routine. Should have been just another play in the dangerous chess game I controlled. But nothing felt routine tonight.There was something in the air. A storm brewing beneath the surface.

I stole a glance at her. She was quiet, too quiet. The same woman who had pushed every one of my buttons last night was now unreadable. I wanted to believe it was nothing, that she was simply retreating into herself. But I didn't believe in coincidences. Not in my world.

"Where exactly are we going?" she asked finally, breaking the silence

I smirked, keeping my eyes on the road. "Nervous, Ogonëk?"

Her jaw tightened. "Just cautious. The last time I followed you somewhere, someone ended up dead."

I let out a low chuckle. "That's the thing about my world, Celeste. Someone always ends up dead."

She didn't respond. But I saw the flicker of something in her eyes—something she wasn't ready to name.

Then, it happened.

A sharp crack echoed through the air. The windshield shattered, the sound of gunfire tearing through the night. Instinct took over as I yanked the wheel to the side. The car skidded, tires screeching against the asphalt as more bullets rained down.

"Get down!" I barked.

Celeste reacted fast, ducking low as I swerved the car into a side street. Another bullet whizzed past, embedding itself in the dashboard inches from my hand. My grip tightened on the wheel as I accelerated, trying to outmaneuver the ambush.

"Who the hell—" she started, but the words died when a black SUV cut us off ahead.

Trapped.

I slammed the brakes, the car jerking violently as I pulled my gun. Celeste did the same. We had seconds before they reached us.

"Stay behind me," I ordered, throwing the door open.

She ignored me, stepping out just as the enemy did. I didn't have time to argue.

The first shot rang out. Then another. The night erupted in chaos. I moved fast, taking out one of the men before he could fire. Celeste was just as quick, her aim sharp, precise.

Then I saw it—one of the bastards aiming straight at her.

I didn't think. I just moved.

Pain exploded in my side as the bullet tore through me.

Celeste's gasp was sharp, her gun turning on the shooter instantly. He dropped before he could fire again, but I barely registered it. The world tilted slightly as I stumbled back, my hand pressing against the wound.

"Adrian!" Her voice was sharper than I'd ever heard it, laced with something dangerously close to panic.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself upright. "We need to move."

She hesitated for half a second before grabbing my arm, her grip firm as she dragged me toward the nearest cover. More gunfire erupted, but we were already moving. I could feel the warmth of blood seeping through my shirt, the pain sharp and unrelenting, but I refused to let it slow me down.

A back alley. A locked door. Celeste kicked it open without hesitation, hauling me inside just as more bullets ricocheted off the walls behind us.

She shoved me against the wall, breath ragged, her hands pressing against my side. "You're hit."

I let out a short laugh, though it came out more as a wince. "Observant, aren't you?"

She glared at me before ripping a piece of her shirt to press against the wound. The contact sent a sharp sting through my body, but I didn't flinch. I was too busy watching her.

Her hands were steady, but her eyes—there was something there. Something raw.

"You're losing too much blood," she murmured, voice uncharacteristically soft.

"You sound worried, Ogonëk," I teased, but my voice was strained.

She met my gaze, and for a moment, we weren't enemies, weren't two people trapped in a game of deception. We were just—something else.

"Shut up," she muttered, applying more pressure. "You're not dying here."

I smirked, ignoring the pain. "Didn't know you cared."

She didn't respond. But the way her hands lingered, the way she refused to let go, told me everything I needed to know.

Her breathing was uneven, her pulse hammering against my skin where she touched me. The space between us had shrunk, too close, too intimate.

I should pull away. I don't.

Instead, I lift a hand—bloody, weak, but steady enough—and brush a strand of her hair from her face.

"I told you before," I murmur, voice low. "You don't get to leave, Ogonëk."

She swallows, but doesn't move. Doesn't push me away.

"I didn't leave," she whispers. "I'm still here."

For a second, neither of us breathe. For the first time I feel something else other than control and I don't think I like it. Then, with effort, I close my eyes.

For now.