Chapter 4 - The Price of Treason
A heavy hand reached through the shattered window, unlocking the door from the inside. Eloin slammed her laptop shut, grabbing the silver pen from her pocket as the door ripped open.
It was one of Blaine’s lieutenants—a massive, scarred man named Viktor. He reached into the rear seat to grab her by the collar. "Come here, little—"
Eloin didn't scream. She drove the hardened steel tip of the fountain pen directly into the muscle between his thumb and index finger. Viktor roared in pain, dropping his grip as blood spattered onto the leather seat.
Eloin scrambled across to the opposite door, throwing it open and tumbling out into the wet asphalt. She scrambled to her feet, her navy dress ruined by oil and rain, her hair plastered to her face.
Viktor rounded the car, clutching his bleeding hand, his face twisted in rage. "You little bitch!"
He lunged for her, but before his fingers could touch her coat, a heavy shadow dropped from the top of the adjacent container with the force of a falling anvil.
Callahan hit Viktor mid-stride, driving the larger man into the steel side of the SUV with an impact that shook the vehicle. Before Viktor could recover, Callahan grabbed him by the throat, slamming his head against the B-pillar twice until the lieutenant crumpled unconscious onto the pavement.
Callahan stood over the fallen man, chest heaving, his face splattered with rain and blood. His eyes were wild, consumed by a primeval fury that made him look less like a syndicate prince and more like an apex predator.
He spun around, grabbing Eloin by her upper arms, pulling her flush against his chest. "Are you hit? Did he touch you?" His voice was raspy, frantic, stripped of all his usual icy composure.
"I'm fine," Eloin breathed, her hands coming up to rest against his wet chest. She felt the heavy, furious thumping of his heart beneath his leather coat. "I'm fine, Callahan."
Callahan searched her face, his gaze scanning every inch of her skin as if verifying her reality. "If he had put a finger on you—"
"He didn't," she whispered.
For a long second, neither of them moved. The rain poured down around them, washing away the grease and blood on the pavement. Callahan’s hands shifted from her arms to her face, his broad, warm palms framing her jawline. His thumbs wiped away the rain beneath her eyes.
"You used your pen," he said, a breathy, breathless sound escaping his lips.
"It’s solid titanium," Eloin murmured, her lips parting slightly. "Sterling bought it for me."
Callahan let out a rough, ragged laugh. Without another word, he pulled her into him and pressed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was fierce, possessive, and electric—born from the adrenaline of survival and the sudden, overwhelming breakdown of months of artificial distance. Eloin gasped into his mouth, her fingers tangling into his wet hair, pulling him closer. There was no strategy in this moment, no ledgers, no tactical positions. There was only the heat of his skin, the taste of rain and copper, and the terrifying realization that they were no longer just allies in a corporate war.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing heavily in the stormy night.
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"The docks are secure," Callahan growled softly, his dark eyes burning into hers. "Blaine is trapped inside the warehouse. The council has seen the feed."
Eloin swallowed hard, trying to regain her voice. "Then it’s time to finish it."
