Page 39 of Ruthless Silence
When I roll left, she rolls right, coming up on one knee with the weapon already raised. Like we've done this dance before. Like our bodies know each other's rhythm from that night when I learned every sound she could make.
Three shots. Two men drop.
Christ, when did she learn to shoot like that?
We move without words, without signs, bodies operating on pure instinct. She covers high while I go low. When she needs to reload, I'm already stepping in front of her. When an attacker flanks me, her knife flies past my ear into his throat. Where the fuck did she get a knife?
Perfect synchronization. Like the desk, that same instinctive knowledge of how we fit together, but this time in violence instead of pleasure. My cock stirs inappropriately. My little killer likes to fight, and fuck if that doesn't make me want her more.
The first wave falls quickly. My knife finds a throat, silent and efficient. Her gunshots group tight, center mass. We pivot around each other like dancers, if dancers painted in blood and moved to the symphony of screaming.
"Kitchen," I sign, and she nods, already moving.
We flow through the chaos, her covering our six while I clear the path. A man grabs her arm. She slashes with a steak knife she's acquired, opening his wrist to the bone. I snap his neck for good measure, making sure he'll never touch what's mine again.
Ana watches me work, and heat fills her eyes, making me harder than I should be in the middle of a bloodbath. My little warrior who fought so fiercely when I took her likes watching me kill for her. The contradiction of her, innocent and deadly, makes my chest tight.
The kitchen doors burst open as we approach. Four more Detroit soldiers, trying to flank us. Ana doesn't hesitate, throws the knife perfectly, catching one in the throat. The wet sound he makes dropping makes her pupils dilate.
When the fuck did she learn that? Jealousy returns, hotter. Someone taught her. Someone touched her to position her arm, to show her the grip. Mine, the beast in my chest growls. She's mine now, regardless of who came before.
We're winning. Together, we're winning. Her dress, that red dress that made me remember spreading her across my desk, swirls as she moves, spotted with blood that isn't hers. Never hers. I'll paint Chicago red before I let them hurt her.
Ana spins away from my side, raising the gun for another shot. Three bullets, perfectly grouped. The attacker drops. But as she pivots back, I see it: red blooming on her white sleeve, spreading like accusation.
Her blood.
The world goes silent. Then red.
Not the controlled violence I've been dealing. This is something else. Something that comes from seeing her blood, HER blood, spilled in my world. The beast I keep leashed breaks free, and every man still breathing signed his death warrant the moment that bullet touched her skin.
I become the monster Chicago whispers about.
The next attacker doesn't just die. I destroy him. Bones crack like percussion, each break a note in the symphony of my rage. His friend tries to run. I catch him at the door, and what happens next makes Ana gasp. But I can't stop. Her blood demands payment in screams.
"Dante!" Ana's voice cuts through the haze. She's saying my name, but all I see is red.
Another down, his throat crushed so thoroughly he'll never scream again. Another, thrown through what's left of a window, the drop ensuring what my hands started. I'm not fighting anymore. I'm erasing. Every man who came here thinking they could touch her, bleed her, take her from me.
Movement behind me. I spin, ready to destroy, but Ana's already there. She empties her clip into the shooter who had me dead to rights, saves my life while her own blood drips down her arm. The shots group perfect despite her wound, despite everything.
"Dante," she signs with her good hand, and something in her eyes pulls me back. "I need you."
Not for violence. For safety. For me, not the monster.
I sweep her into my arms, ignoring her protests. "I can walk," she insists, but her voice wavers, shock setting in. The bloodstain on her sleeve spreads with each heartbeat, and every drop makes the beast in my chest howl for more vengeance.
But she needs me. Just me.
Nico's team floods the restaurant, efficient cleanup already in motion. Marco's on his phone, handling the police response with his usual authority. But I only care about the woman in my arms, her blood seeping through my shirt where she's pressed against me.
The car door slams behind us as Tommy floors it, tires screaming against asphalt. Ana's blood is on my hands, literally now, from pressing against her wound. The sight of it makesme want to turn back, to ensure every man who entered that restaurant dies screaming.
"You're hurt," I sign one-handed, the other arm steel around her waist.
"Worth it," she signs back, and there's something soft in her eyes despite the pain. "I saved you."
She did. From the shooter I didn't see. From the rage that would have consumed me completely. From myself.
