Page 88 of Imperfect Desires

I plant it carefully along the hinges and lock mechanism. My fingers move fast, precise. I’ve done this a hundred times before—but never when the stakes were her.

The moment it’s set, I stand back and press the detonator.

“Clear,” I say.

Anton steps behind cover.

I count under my breath.

Three. Two. One.

BOOM.

The small explosion rattles the hallway. The reinforced door shudders violently, the lock splintering in a shower of sparks and dust. Metal creaks, then groans open, just enough to push through.

And then—

Silence.

Smoke curls out into the hallway, thick and slow, cloaking the world in gray.

I move through it like a ghost, heart pounding so loud I barely hear the crunch of debris under my boots.

And then—I see her.

Huddled near the far corner of the room. Disheveled. Bruised. Her long dark hair tangled, her face pale, her arms clutching her stomach like she’s guarding something precious.

She doesn’t move.

Not at first. Our eyes lock and time stops. Her blue eyes look haunted, wide, and brimming with disbelief and relief at the same time.

“Alina,” I whisper.

Her lips part. She doesn’t speak. Just stares, like I might disappear if she blinks too hard. I take a step forward. Then another. She rises shakily to her feet, swaying like she hasn’t stood in hours, maybe days.

She doesn’t run to me. She doesn’t need to because I’m already moving, closing the space between us with every pulse of my heart. I reach for her before I hear the heavy footsteps stomping towards us.

I pivot, using my body as a shielded in front of her with both pistols drawn.

Anton’s voice shouts from down the hall, “Lev—company!”

My heart slams against my ribs. Could it be more guards?

Or is it Carlos Mendes?

31

Alina

The explosion rings in my ears, but it’s the silence that follows that nearly undoes me. Thick smoke pours into the room, curling around the ceiling, hugging the floor. My eyes burn, but I don’t dare move. I can’t.

I’m frozen.

I crouch in the far corner, one arm wrapped protectively over my stomach, the other pressed to the wall behind me like it might stop the world from collapsing. And then—through the haze—a shape appears.

A man. Tall and broad with a weapon in his hand, his movements swift, lethal.

No. No, not him. Please not Mendes.

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