Chapter 25

• The silence that followed Julian’s death was deafening, broken only by the ragged rasp of their own breaths and the drip, drip, drip of water from the leaky pipe. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of gun smoke, a stark contrast to the quiet determination that settled over Cleo and Rowan. The warehouse, a testament to their harrowing ordeal, was littered with the detritus of their violent struggle – shattered wood, discarded weapons, and the grim evidence of a hard-fought victory.
• Cleo, leaning against a crumbling wall, her hand still trembling slightly, felt a wave of nausea wash over her. The adrenaline, the potent cocktail of fear and fury that had fueled her through the brutal confrontation, was receding, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a chilling awareness of what she had done. The small pistol, still clutched in her hand, felt suddenly heavy, an unbearable weight of responsibility settling upon her. She looked at it, then down at the blood staining her hands, a visceral reminder of the violence she had unleashed.
• Rowan knelt beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his touch gentle yet firm. He, too, was wounded, his shirt ripped and stained with blood, but his eyes held a tenderness that soothed her shaken spirit. He’d seen the raw terror in her eyes during the fight, the flicker of fear that had almost overtaken her, and he understood the depth of the trauma she was now facing. He was her anchor, her unwavering support in this horrifying aftermath.