Ashton’s POV
The warehouse loomed against the night sky like a rotting corpse.
I parked the car a half mile away and approached on foot, moving through the shadows with the practiced silence of a man who's done this a hundred times before. My gun was a familiar weight in my hand. My heart was ice.
I left the man who loves Lyra in the car. Right now, I needed the killer. The one Kian trained. The one who feels nothing except the cold calculation of how many bodies stand between him and his target.
I counted four guards on the perimeter. Amateurs.
They were watching the roads, the obvious entry points—not the drainage ditch that ran along the east side of the building or the rusted fire escape that led to a broken window on the second floor. Donovan hired muscle, not professionals.
His first mistake.
I took out the first guard from behind. A sleeper hold, silent and efficient, lowering the unconscious body to the ground without a sound. The second went down the same way.
The third heard something and turned, reaching for his weapon. I was faster. Knife to the throat, hand over the mouth, and it was over before he could scream.
I felt nothing. No guilt, no hesitation. These men chose to stand between me and Lyra. They made their choice.
The fourth guard was inside, stationed near a doorway that led deeper into the warehouse. I watched him through a grimy window, tracking his patterns, waiting for the moment when he turned away.
Three seconds. That's all I needed.
The guard turned. I moved—through the window, across the floor, knife in hand. He dropped without a sound.
I heard voices now.
Donovan's cultured tone echoing off concrete walls, talking on the phone, negotiating terms with Kian. And beneath that, another voice—Nate's whining complaints about having to wait, about wanting what he was promised.
My hands tightened on my gun.
Nate. The boy who terrorized Lyra. Who blackmailed her. Who put his hands on her when she said no.
Tonight, that ends.
I moved through the warehouse like a ghost, following the voices, clearing corners with military precision. The main room opened up ahead of me—a vast space filled with rusted machinery and abandoned equipment.
And there, in the center, illuminated by a single work light, was Lyra.
She was bound to a chair now, her wrists behind her back, her face bruised, her lip split and bleeding. But she was alive. I could see her breathing, see her eyes scanning the shadows, looking for something.
For me, I realized. Even now, even after everything, she was looking for me.
Nate paced in front of her, agitated, gesturing wildly. Donovan stood near the far wall, ending his phone call, checking his watch. Two other men flanked the exits—more guards, more obstacles.
I calculated angles, distances, probabilities. Four targets. One hostage. Sixty feet of open ground.
I was about to move when Nate stopped pacing and pulled a knife from his belt.
"I'm tired of waiting." His voice was petulant, childish. "Donovan, you promised. You said once the call was done—"
"The call isn't done," Donovan said sharply. "Kian is stalling. He wants proof of life before he agrees to anything."
Nate turned to Lyra with an ugly smile. "Then let's give him proof."
He grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back, pressing the knife to her throat.
"Smile for daddy, baby. Let him see what happens when he takes too long."
Lyra didn't scream. Didn't beg.
She looked directly at the shadows where I was hiding—somehow, impossibly, she knew I was there—and said clearly: "Whatever you're planning, do it now."
I moved.
The first guard dropped with a bullet between the eyes before anyone registered the shot. The second turned toward the sound and took two rounds to the chest. Donovan shouted something and ran for the back exit.
I let him go. Kian's men were waiting outside. Donovan was not the priority.
The priority was Nate, who was pressing the knife harder against Lyra's throat, drawing a thin line of blood, screaming threats that blurred together into meaningless noise.
"Stop!" His voice cracked with panic. "Stop or I'll kill her! I swear to God I'll—"
"You won't." I stepped into the light, gun raised, aimed directly at his head. "Because you're a coward. You've always been a coward. You don't have the guts to kill anyone—you just like hurting people who can't fight back."
Nate's hand trembled. The knife wavered.
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Yes, you are." I took another step forward. "You've been afraid of me since the moment I arrived. That's why you backed off. That's why you needed Donovan to remove me before you could make your move."
Another step.
"Put the knife down, Nate. It's over."
"It's not over!" His eyes were wild, desperate. "She was supposed to be mine! Everything was supposed to work out! Donovan promised—"
"Donovan lied. To everyone. Including you." My voice was calm, almost gentle. "You were never going to get what he promised. You were just another tool. Now that you've served your purpose, you're disposable. Just like everyone else."
Doubt flickered across Nate's face. The knife lowered half an inch.
It was enough.
I threw my knife—a blur of silver across the work light—and it buried itself in Nate's hand. He screamed, dropping his weapon, clutching his bleeding fingers.
I crossed the remaining distance in three strides and put him on the ground with a single brutal punch.
I wanted to keep hitting. Wanted to feel bone crack beneath my fists. Wanted to make him pay for every moment of fear he'd caused Lyra, every threat, every violation, every bruise on her beautiful face.
But her voice stopped me.
"Ashton. Don't."
I froze, fist raised, breathing hard. Nate whimpered beneath me, blood streaming from his ruined hand.
"He's not worth it," Lyra said quietly. "Let him rot in prison. Don't become a murderer for him."
I looked at her. Bruised. Bloodied. Pregnant with my child. And still trying to save me from myself.
Something cracked open in my chest.
She was right. She was always right. I was better than this. Or at least, I wanted to be. For her. For our baby.
I stood, leaving Nate groaning on the concrete, and moved to Lyra.
My knife cut through the zip ties and she fell forward into my arms, shaking, sobbing, clutching me like I was the only solid thing in a world that kept falling apart.
"I'm sorry," she gasped against my chest. "I'm so sorry. I should have trusted you. I should have believed you. I should have—"
"Shh." I held her tight, one hand cradling her head, the other wrapped around her waist, careful of the baby between us. "You're safe now. That's all that matters."
"I thought you'd hate me." Her voice broke. "After everything I did. The complaint. The things I said. I thought—"
"I could never hate you." I pulled back just enough to cup her face in my hands, wiping tears from her bruised cheeks with my thumbs. "Lyra, look at me."
She looked up, eyes swimming with tears and guilt and something that looked like hope.
"I love you," I said softly. "I love you more than I've ever loved anything in my life. And nothing you did—nothing you could ever do—would change that."
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "I love you too. I was so scared I'd never get to tell you again. That I'd die here and you'd never know—"
I kissed her. Gentle, careful of her split lip, pouring everything I felt into that one moment of connection. Her fingers curled into my jacket, holding on like she'd never let go.
From outside, I heard shouts, gunshots, the sounds of Kian's people securing the perimeter. Donovan didn't get far. None of them did.
It was over.
But right now, in this moment, the only thing that existed was Lyra in my arms. Alive. Safe. Mine.
I pressed my lips to her hair and let myself breathe for the first time in days.
"Let's go home," I murmured against her temple.
She nodded against my chest, still crying, still shaking. "Together?"
"Together." I held her tighter, one hand drifting down to rest against the small swell of her stomach. Our child. Our future. "Always."