Enough To Bleed

Chapter 11: Enough to Bleed

The warehouse they trained in had no name, just coordinates. Steel bones, a concrete floor, and skylights that let in only dull, ashen light. It smelled of oil and dust and cordite. Heira never asked how Cole had access to the space—she had learned early on not to ask questions unless she wanted lies.

Every morning at six, she was there. Before the sun climbed past the skyline. Before the streets thawed from their sleep. She warmed up with laps around the interior, boots thudding against concrete. Then she shot.

Paper silhouettes turned to ribbons under her aim. Single shots. Double taps. Timed drills. She reloaded like clockwork, jaw clenched, brows set. The ginger of her wolf cut had started to fade at the tips, but her eyes—outlined in dark liner, framed behind thick glasses—were sharpened into tools. Nobody recognized her. That was the point.

Cole didn't speak much unless he had to. But he watched. Always watched. His gaze tracked her body language, the angle of her wrist, the flex of her shoulder. She caught him watching when she was pretending not to notice, and he caught her doing the same. A kind of mutual distrust rooted in respect.

"You don't miss much," he said one morning, crouching beside her as she reloaded. "That's not common."

She didn't look up. "Practice."

He nodded slowly. "You ever think about doing more with that skill?"

"No," she said, too quickly.

He didn't press. Not then.

—

By the end of that second week, Cole left a small envelope in her locker. No name. No words. Just a folded slip of paper inside.

A location. A time. A note: Demonstration.

She debated tossing it. But curiosity had sharper teeth than pride.

The next night, she went.

A shooting range in the industrial zone. Nothing official. Nothing legal. But well-run. Clean. Structured. Men and women lined up in stalls, working through tactical drills with calm efficiency. Cole stood by a table at the far end, arms folded, nodding toward a target pinned at forty meters.

She approached. He handed her a modified .40 caliber.

"Show them what you can do."

She didn't hesitate. She loaded, locked in, and fired. Seven rounds in under five seconds. All clustered near center mass.

The room went quiet. Then a slow murmur of interest.

Cole didn't smile. But he was pleased.

Afterward, outside, under a flickering security light, he offered it plainly: "I can use someone like you. Pays well. Flexible hours. Off the books."

Heira stared at him, unreadable.

"No," she said.

Cole blinked once. "You sure?"

"I've been on the wrong side of the law already. I'm not going back."

He nodded. Didn't argue. Let her walk away.

—

But two days later, he was waiting for her again. Leaning against a rust-bitten pillar inside the warehouse as she laced her boots.

"You could think of it differently," he said. "Not crime. Precision. Strategy. Clean work."

She exhaled through her nose. "I said no."

He shrugged. "You'll say yes."

—

By the third time he asked, she didn't bother refusing. She just looked at him for a long time and said nothing.

And the silence said more than her mouth ever could.

He handed her a new envelope. This one heavier. Inside: cash, burner SIM, photos.

She didn't ask who. She didn't ask why. She didn't look too long at the faces. Just memorized them.

Cole wasn't wrong—she had the skill. What he didn't know, couldn't know, was that Heira was building something else under the surface. Not just revenge. Not just blood. A life. A version of the world that didn't owe her explanations or apologies. Just space.

—

She didn't enjoy killing. But she was good at it.

No flair. No drama. Just efficiency. Slipping in and out like fog. Silent. Forgotten.

But after every job, she cleaned her hands until her knuckles turned raw. She watched the water go pink, then clear, then still. She told herself this was temporary. A tunnel. Not a home.

Each time she finished, she went to a different corner café. Ordered black coffee. Took out a lined notebook and sketched ideas. Not names. Not memories. Plans.

Business blueprints.

Notebooks filled with floor plans, street grids, handwritten notes. Nothing digital. Just ink on paper. A small café, maybe. Or a bookstore. Something public, visible. Something that would last.

She saw it clearly: a front room with clean windows, soft music. A back office with a vault. Secrets buried beneath cappuccinos.

That was the future.

But first—the Darnells.

—

Cole pushed harder as the weeks went on. Longer hours. Sharper drills. Heira worked in silence, never offering more than what he needed to know. He liked it that way. So did she.

She learned more than she showed—how Cole handled money, who visited him after dark, the small unmarked cars that came and went like ghosts. She listened through walls. Studied patterns. He thought she was loyal because she showed up.

He didn't understand: she was loyal only to herself.

—

One night, as rain hit the rooftop like falling nails, she stood by the mirror in the warehouse locker room. The light above buzzed dimly. She looked at her reflection. Hard cheekbones. Shadowed eyes. A face scrubbed of softness.

She adjusted her glasses. Her lip ring caught the light.

The girl who once waited on gala guests was gone. Not buried—burned.

She thought of her mother then. Of the Darnell estate. Of the knife in the hallway. Of Calliope's eyes.

She didn't flinch.

This was the price of survival. Of becoming sharp enough to bleed others before they bled you.

—

Cole took her out to the field three days later.

No warehouse. No targets. Just open woods, a distant cabin, and a black duffel bag full of weapons.

"Next level," he said.

She nodded and followed.

Out here, the silence was louder. Every footstep crunched. Every breath fogged. Cole threw her a scoped rifle. She caught it clean.

"Tell me," he said, "what's your plan after this?"

She glanced at him. "Don't have one."

"Bullshit."

Heira said nothing.

Cole studied her. "You don't strike me as someone who wants to do this forever."

"I don't."

He raised a brow. "So why are you here?"

"To get good."

He smiled, finally. "You're already good."

"Then I want to be better."

She lay prone in the brush and aimed. Cole gave her a distant object—a glint of metal on a fence. She fired. Hit it. Adjusted. Hit it again.

He said nothing, but she could feel it: the growing regard. The suspicion. He was trying to figure out who she was beyond the file he'd read.

He never would.

—

At night, she dreamt in red. Of fire. Velvet. Blood under fingernails. But in the morning she moved with calm precision, her hands steady, her breath even.

She kept her original evidence safe—hidden in a new locker, in a new unit, beneath flooring she'd lifted herself. Her plan for the Darnells hadn't changed. Just the timeline.

She would gather resources. She would build trust. She would position herself.

And then, when no one saw it coming, she would strike. With proof. With power. With fire if needed.

But it would not be impulsive.

It would be final.

—

One Sunday, Cole handed her a plane ticket.

"Next job's off-grid," he said. "Test of trust."

She read the name on the ID: Eva Torres.

Another life.

Heira nodded. "I'll pack."

Cole smiled faintly. "I knew you'd be the type."

She almost laughed. Almost.

—

That night, she returned to her apartment and lit a candle on the windowsill. The flame flickered over her ginger hair, over the wall of taped-up sketches and business ideas.

A blueprint sat center—crisp, folded, ready.

The business would come. The future would come.