Elira Vale hadn't slept. Not really.
The chill of the warehouse air had nothing on the fire still simmering beneath her skin. Her heartbeat hadn't slowed since Azriel had vanished into the shadows, leaving behind nothing but the ghost of his breath against her mouth and a storm beneath her ribs.
It wasn't just the heat between them.
It was the danger of it. The wrongness of it.
What the hell am I doing?
She stared at the water-stained ceiling, jaw tight, body sore. The pain from her leg was dull now, drowned beneath a wave of something worse.
Shame.
Not because she'd almost let him touch her.
Because she wanted him to.
Her enemy. Her hunter. The man who'd killed for silence and bathed in secrets.
Elira forced herself upright. The blanket slid off her, revealing the crusted bandages and bruised ribs beneath her tank. The cold bit into her, but she welcomed it. Let it burn away the fog Azriel Moreaux had left in her head.
This isn't me. I don't fold. I don't crave the hands that once signed my death.
She limped to the edge of the crate where she'd stashed her old blade, fingers curling around the worn hilt like a lifeline.
She needed clarity. A reminder of who she was before the monster in the dark had learned her name.
---
Hours passed. The warehouse buzzed faintly with the hum of old power lines and the occasional distant echo of movement — rats, pipes, ghosts. Elira paced the edges of the space like a caged animal. Restless. Wounded. Dangerous.
Azriel sat in the control room, screens lighting his face in cold blue. The surveillance feeds looped. The ONYX facility. A safehouse in Sector Four. The still frame of Elira from years ago — bloodied, wild, marked for death.
He couldn't look away.
He'd sworn not to care.
Sworn to stay cold.
But Elira Vale was undoing him one venomous look at a time.
He didn't trust her. Didn't like her.
But he felt her. In every breath. Every nerve. Like a splinter buried too deep to remove.
A door creaked.
He didn't turn.
"You watching me now, too?" Elira's voice was sharp.
"Always," he said without looking up.
She stepped into the room, arms crossed, bandages showing through her ripped sleeves. Her mouth was tight, her hair a mess of fury and focus.
"We need rules," she said.
He raised a brow. "Rules?"
"Boundaries. Distance. Space. Whatever the hell it is that stops you from putting your hands on me again."
Azriel turned then, slow, deliberate. "You think I make the first move, Vale?"
She flushed. "I think I lose focus when you're near. And that makes *me* a liability."
"No," he said, standing. "That makes you human."
"No," she snapped. "It makes me weak. And I'm not fucking weak."
Their gazes clashed. Hot. Unrelenting.
He stepped closer. Just a fraction.
"You were never weak. Not even when you were bleeding on that table with a number carved into your skin."
She flinched. Her jaw tightened.
Azriel watched her carefully. "You want rules, fine. But don't act like what's between us is one-sided."
"I'm not here for that. I'm not here to play soldier and forget who the fuck you are."
"Then remember," he said, tone deadly. "Remember that I held the leash they chained to your throat. Remember that I pulled the trigger when they told me to. You think I forgot that?"
Elira's voice dropped, venomous. "Then stay the hell away from me."
He took a step forward.
"You started this fire, Vale. Don't act surprised when it spreads."
"I'll put it out myself."
"With gasoline?"
"With a fucking blade."
He smiled coldly. "Try."
"I've gutted better men than you."
"Then maybe you need sharper knives."
"Screw you."
"You're not my type."
"Arrogant bastard."
"Unstable bitch."
"Rotten murderer."
"Scheming little viper."
"I should've slit your throat when I had the chance."
"Next time, do it. You might not get another."
She shoved past him, shoulder slamming into his. He caught her wrist on instinct, fingers tightening — and for a moment they were pressed too close, fury dancing between their mouths.
"Let. Me. Go."
"You think I won't break you first?"
"Try it, and I'll make sure your corpse doesn't even get a name."
"Spicy little thing, aren't you?"
"Rot in hell, Moreaux."
"Ladies first."
He stared at her, knuckles white around her wrist. Then he released her, slowly, deliberately, as if daring her to strike.
She didn't.
She stormed out.
---
Back in her makeshift cot, Elira collapsed, breath ragged.
But this time, she didn't let herself sink.
She grabbed a pen, a torn scrap of paper, and wrote down every name she remembered. Every girl. Every number. Every site she needed to destroy.
Let Azriel brood in the shadows. Let him circle her like a wolf.
She had a mission.
And she wouldn't let l
ust, confusion, or pain rewrite the truth:
They were enemies.
And if he got in her way again—
She'd bury him like the rest.
———
**To be continued...**