“Pain had rules—and I had mastered them all.”

BLURB

Kyra's patience has officially run out.
What began as an ambush quickly shifts into a relentless solo takedown—with Kade wounded, rambling, and inexplicably managing to flirt despite the agony.
There are rules to violence.

And Kyra? She wrote the manual.

➤ HER LIMIT, THEIR PROBLEM  
[9:38 PM — Side alley of Handover Street]

The next five seconds were a haze of motion.

Twitch dropped first—a sharp knee to the groin, followed by an elbow to the throat.
He folded in on himself like a lousy poker hand, hitting the ground hard.

Silent One lunged next.
I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and twisted until the knife slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the asphalt. A quick pivot, and he was down, knees scraping against the pavement, his arm wrenched into a vicious, locked angle.

Limp froze for a moment too long.
I saw the instant recognition hit him—not just as someone he’d targeted, not just anyone, but someone who knew the rules of the street better than he did.
Hesitation flitted across his face as I caught his lunge mid-air, countering with a twist that sent his weapon skidding across the ground.
Another quick move brought him to his knees, arm straining under my grip.

My body responded instinctively: fast, precise, relentlessly efficient.
Pain had rules—and I had mastered them all.

“Drop the money,” I said quietly but firmly, twisting his arm to teeter on the edge of breaking. “And let Tiny know this street is neutral territory. Reaper won’t appreciate hearing you crossed the line.”

His whole body stiffened. “Y-you know Reaper?”
Limp’s pallor shifted to something more akin to dread—white as bone.

They didn’t need to understand how I knew Reaper, only that I did.

"If you’re smart," I said coldly, tightening my hold until his bones screamed, "you’ll stop asking stupid questions while your joints still bend the right way."

The cash hit the ground like a smoldering ember, and with one frantic shout— “Let’s go!”—they scattered, scrambling into the night like startled vermin from an exposed trap.

✦✦✦

➤ BLOOD & BANTER  
[9:40 PM — Side alley of Handover Street]

As they fled, leaving curses in their wake, I turned back toward Kade.

He was slumped against a lamppost as if held up by sheer willpower alone—a slouched, beaten mess resembling holiday décor after a storm; one hand clutched at his ribs while his other smeared blood across his split lip in a failed attempt at cleanup.

And yet there was that infernal grin: crooked, winded, and saturated with amusement.

But his eyes? They were full of warmth—bright and maddeningly satisfied.

“That,” he rasped between uneven breaths, “was hands-down the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I blinked. Reflexively.

“No, really,” he continued, undeterred and foolishly enthusiastic, “I think I fell a little in love somewhere between your knee to that guy’s groin and your whispered warnings like some sexy war goddess. You’re—” he gestured feebly in my general direction “—a badass, woman.”

I stared back in silence.

Of course, his grin only widened.

“And you’re bleeding,” I finally said in an unimpressed monotone.

He tried straightening up but nearly toppled sideways like a poorly aligned marionette.

Without meaning to, I moved to catch him—no thought involved, just an ingrained reaction that even annoyed me afterward.

Damned reflexes.

His weight sagged into me—heavier than expected.

My eyes flicked across him for damage control: ribs bruised at best, lips split like torn fabric, ego likely cracked beyond repair. And blood—warm and wrong where it shouldn’t be.

"Oh, you noticed," he said, grinning at me like this was all part of some flirty detour.

"You tried to bribe muggers with your wallet and a negotiation pitch, then got hit four times.” My voice was flat with disbelief but edged on crisp irritation. “So yeah. I noticed.”

“This character flaw can easily pass for boyish charm if we market it properly,” he replied with a weak shrug—though instantly regretted tugging on the wound as a wince sliced across his face. “As for the hitting,” he added after recovering slightly, “only three were really hard. The fourth one was more like a strong suggestion.”

I stared again, slow blinking because processing this man required longer pauses than should logically exist. “You're a walking head injury."

“And yet," he countered with audacious delight, "still better company than most of your students."

"You’re not exactly raising the standard here so much as tripping over them in expensive shoes. Even as I huffed annoyance aloud, my grip readjusted itself as one arm slid under his to keep him balanced.

“It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” He smirked, utterly self-satisfied.

"You’re limping and your end is certainly far from working out.” I muttered, rolling my eyes while half-dragging him toward the marginally safer side of Handover.

“It’s a compelling narrative, if you think about it. Man encounters mugger. Man offers cash. Mugger denounces capitalism. Chaos unfolds.”

“You’re concussed.”

“And yet, you’re voluntarily touching me. Clearly, I’m doing something right.”

“Come on,” I sighed with resignation, surrendering this round of banter. “Let’s get you patched up before you say one more ridiculous thing that makes me regret saving you."

He leaned more heavily into me, his warmth bleeding through my shirt—a sensation too familiar, too intimate. It’s like we’d done this dance before.

And I hated it.

Because it felt like he belonged there.
Like safety was somehow wrapped around him.
And that unnerved me more than any blade ever could.

Not the danger.
But my visceral need to shield him from it.

"You mean you’re not impressed by my reckless heroism?" he quipped.

"If by heroism, you mean parading around as target practice while still imagining you're the protagonist? Then sure."

He laughed, though the pain immediately twisted his face into a wince. “Oof. Medic required. You steer; I'll bleed with dramatic flair."

“Try not to ruin my shirt, White Knight.”

“No guarantees, my betrothed."