Page 30 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

"Don't move! Both of you, hands where we can see them!" The lead officer barks, his stance rigid and professional.

Eva releases her hold on me completely, moving to get up on her hands and knees. Her silver hair falls around her face like a curtain, but I catch her smirk – that knowing, twisted expression that makes my blood run cold.

"You're so fucking lucky I still have use for you," she mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. Her voice is hoarse from our fight, but there's an undercurrent of amusement that doesn't fit the situation.

"What?" I rasp, confusion mixing with the adrenaline still coursing through my system. My eyes dart between Eva and the approaching officers, trying to make sense of what's happening.

Ten of the officers move forward in formation, their movements precise and coordinated. Too coordinated. Something about their approach sets off warning bells in my head – little details that don't quite add up.

"Final warning!" The lead officer shouts. "Hands up, both of you, or we will open fire!"

That's when it hits me. Their uniforms are perfect – too perfect. Brand new, without a single crease or sign of wear. No name tags. No precinct identifiers. And their weapons...

"Fuck," I breathe, finally seeing what's been nagging at my instincts. These aren't standard issue police firearms. These are military-grade weapons, modified for close-quarter combat.

*These aren't real cops.*

Without thinking, I move in front of Eva, shielding her with my body. "Stay back!" I shout, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "I'll kill her if you come any closer!"

Eva snorts behind me, still on her hands and knees. "You absolute idiot," she wheezes, and I can hear her fighting to regulate her breathing. "Always trying to play the big bad wolf when you don't even know what game you're in."

"What are you talking about?"

"Think about it, dear brother." Her voice takes on that teaching tone she uses when explaining something obvious to someone particularly slow. "Did you really believe this was just about us? Our little sibling rivalry? We're pawns on a much grander chessboard, and this—" she gestures to the armed men with a lazy wave, "—is just another move in the game."

The false officers continue their advance, weapons trained on us with unwavering precision. My mind races, trying to process what Eva's saying while searching for a way out of this mess.

"You got some kind of plan?" I ask through gritted teeth, keeping my eyes on the approaching threats.

She laughs, but it's a bitter sound. "Oh, I had several. Brilliant ones, actually. But then you had to go and kill Zander, so you know what? Fuck you."

"Goddammit, Eva?—"

"Both of you, on your knees!" The lead officer interrupts. "Domino Leighton, you're under arrest for the murder of Felix Harrison, also known as Flex?—"

Eva's laughter cuts through the tension like a knife. It starts low, building into that manic sound I've come to associate with her darkest moments. "Flex?" she manages between giggles. "You're calling him Flex? Funny... you don't even know his real name, do you?"

The officer's stance shifts slightly – barely noticeable, but telling. "That's irrelevant. You're both facing multiple felony charges?—"

"Badge number," Eva interrupts, her voice suddenly sharp as steel. When the officer doesn't immediately respond, she presses, "Come on, Officer. Standard procedure, isn't it? I ask for your badge number, you're required by law to provide it."

"That's none of your concern when you're facing felony charges?—"

Eva's laughter takes on an even more unhinged quality. "Touch me," she challenges, rising slowly to her feet behind me, "and you won't make it out of this warehouse alive, let alone manage to arrest anyone."

I feel her hand grip the back of my shirt, using me for balance as she continues to recover from our fight. The movement seems weak, unsteady – but something tells me it's all for show. She's playing some angle I can't see yet.

"You think these are empty threats?" she continues, her voice carrying through the warehouse. "You think you know what you're dealing with? You don't even know Flex's real name. You don't know anything."

The lead officer's jaw tightens – another tell. "On your knees, now!"

"No badge number, no precinct identifiers, and military-grade weapons," Eva lists off, as if she's reading a shopping list. "Tell me, what kind of cops carry modified M4A1 carbines with suppressors on a routine arrest?"

The tension in the air shifts palpably. Several of the false officers exchange glances, their perfect formation wavering slightly.

"Enough games," the leader snaps. "Take them both."

"Who sent you?" I find myself asking, finally catching up to Eva's train of thought. "Because this isn't about Flex, is it? This is about something bigger."

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