“Stay down!” My voice is a snarl, rough and unyielding as I shove her lower behind the cover.

Her breathing is ragged, coming in short, uneven gasps, but she doesn’t scream. Her fingers clutch at the sleeve of my jacket, nails digging into the fabric.

She’s terrified.

But she doesn’t run.

Goddamn it, Isabella.

I pull my gun, the weight of it an extension of my fury, and shift just enough to return fire.

The night is a war zone.

The crack of gunfire slashes through the air, punctuated by sharp cries of pain as bullets find their marks. Bodies drop. Blood pools on concrete. My men engage without hesitation, their shots precise, efficient—trained for moments like this. But we’re outnumbered.

And I should have fucking known.

A figure moves in the shadows, the flash of gunmetal catching my eye. Too fast. Too close.

“Isabella!”

A gunman emerges from behind the stacked crates, his aim locking onto her.

She doesn’t see him.

But I do.

I don’t think—I move.

I lunge forward, my body reacting before my mind even registers the action.

The gunshot explodes into the night, a sharp, brutal crack that makes my ears ring.

Isabella cries out, stumbling back. Blood.

A thin, dark line streaks across her arm, staining the sleeve of her dress.

Not fatal.

But I see red.

A deep, consuming rage coils inside me, snapping tight, white-hot and lethal.

The man who shot her dies before he even hits the ground.

I pull the trigger once, twice—his skull snaps back, a spray of crimson painting the concrete behind him. He collapses, twitching, his fingers still reflexively squeezing the trigger of his gun as his life drains away.

But I’m not done.

I advance, my steps cautious, my pulse hammering like war drums.

Another enemy rounds the corner—I don’t give him a chance.

I fire. The bullet punches through his throat. He chokes, gurgling, clutching at the gaping wound as he crumples.

The scent of gunpowder and blood fills the air, sharp and metallic, an acrid perfume of war.

More gunmen spill into the pier.