Page 17 of Fired at the Heart

Raphael moves beside me, his body heat seeping into me, and I shove down the instinctive desire to move closer. I don’t have time for the distraction. Not when one misstep could turn the garden into a graveyard.

The estate’s security is good, but not perfect. A single guard rounds the side entrance, the glow of his cigarette marking him before he steps into view. I move before he sees me, knife sliding free from its sheath, and in a heartbeat, he’s down, no sound, no struggle, just dead weight crumpling into the roses.

My breaths come slow and even within the black mask that covers my face, my pulse barely elevated by the incident. I wipe the blade clean and turn to Raphael, tipping my head to indicate we should keep going.

We advance, and the others follow, approaching the carved stone archway leading into the estate. Raphael’s shoulder brushes mine, and I don’t need to check to know he’s surveying the layout, every angle and potential threat assessed in an instant.

I want to resent how easily we still move together, like no time has passed at all. But I can’t deny the flicker of anticipation in my chest, the instinctive pull to fall into sync with him, even now.

“Perimeter check,” I command, the communicator around my neck carrying my whispered words to the rest of our people. “Two-minute sweep. Keep it tight.”

As my team disperses, Raphael’s presence at my side fills my senses. I take a steadying breath, the sweet scent of roses mixing with the pheromones from Raphael’s skin. It’s a scent I once knew as well as my own, and the familiarity of it opens an ache in my chest.

I silence my communicator to speak to him. “Stick to the plan. No improvising.”

Raphael’s low hum of acknowledgment vibrates through me, and the weight of his gaze settles on my profile. I don’t meet his eyes. I can’t. Not when being this close to him after so many years is messing with my head, my instincts flip-flopping between leaning into him and pushing him away.

So I do what I do best. I square my shoulders, set my jaw, and focus on the mission. On the goal that’s driven me for so long. Everything else—the history, the hurt, the unresolved issues between us—will have to wait.

Confirmation that all is clear comes from our team as everyone gets into position.

“Move out,” I whisper.

Together, we slip into the estate through the French doors.

The ground floor is too bright for comfort. Chandeliers drip gold light onto polished floors, and the walls gleam with ornate paneling. Erotic oil paintings of Alphas dominating Omegas line the walls, and my stomach twists with disgust.

Killing this man will be a pleasure.

Raphael moves beside me, his steps silent despite the years he’s been out of this side of the business. We stay close to the walls, where the glare isn’t as punishing, moving past open doorways that spill the sound of distant conversation and the clink of expensive crystal.

My earpiece crackles with quiet confirmations as the others get into position. Team B is already in the east wing, cutting down security, and Team C is setting the first charge in the main hall.

Everything is in motion.

My fingers flex around the grip of my pistol as we reach the hallway leading to the basement door. It’s locked, but that won’t be a problem. Without a word between us, Raphael shifts into position, offering cover as I kneel. Holstering my gun, I pull a slim set of picks from my belt.

Within seconds, the lock gives under my hands, and I ease the door open, revealing a stairwell descending into darkness.

Raphael’s hand brushes my arm in a silent signal. I fall into step behind him as we begin our descent. The narrow stairs offer nowhere to take cover if we run into trouble, and my pulse quickens, my senses heightened as I keep my gun trained on the door we came through.

Halfway down, I catch the faint scuff of a boot on the stairs. Before I can alert Raphael, he moves, his body a blur of motion as a security guard comes around the corner of the stairs.

He spots us, his body stiffening in shock as he reaches for his radio, but Raphael’s on him in an instant, sliding a knife through his neck and severing the man’s spine.

It’s over in seconds, and the guard crumples to the ground, his radio skittering across the steps.

“Nice work.” I stoop to retrieve the radio and tuck it into my pocket.

The adrenaline of the fight burns bright in Raphael’s face. “Just like old times, huh?”

A shiver of awareness shoots through me, my blood heating. “Yeah. Just like old times.”

We continue downward, the air growing colder. Gone is the opulence from above, replaced by cement walls and bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

As we round the last turn in the stairs, I glimpse movement ahead. More guards, though they haven’t noticed us yet. They sit at a table, a game of cards in play.

Raphael pauses, gun raised, and gestures to the left.

---