So he bent his head and kissed you.
It was not gentle at first, because neither of you knew how to pretend this had not been building in every silence for weeks. But then his hands came to your face with devastating care, avoiding the scar beneath your eye as if it were holy. The kiss slowed, deepened, became something less like hunger and more like surrender.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You will ruin me,” he whispered.
You closed your eyes.
“No,” you said. “I think you were already burning.”
He smiled then.
A real smile.
Small. Brief. Yours.
Happiness, however, was not allowed to arrive without being tested.
The attack came three nights later.
You were leaving the foundation office with Elena when the first shot shattered the car window.
The sound ripped the air apart.
Elena grabbed your arm. Her driver shouted. Roman’s men moved instantly, one pulling Elena down, another throwing his body in front of yours.
But you had already seen the second shooter.
He stepped from between two parked cars, raising a gun toward Elena.
There was no time to think.
Again, you moved.
You shoved Elena behind a concrete planter and dropped with her as bullets cracked against stone. Glass rained across the sidewalk. People screamed. Tires shrieked.
One of Roman’s men fired back.
The shooter fell.
Then everything became sirens, blood, and Roman’s voice roaring your name.
He arrived in less than six minutes.
You knew because later the police report said so, but in the moment, it felt like he appeared out of the smoke itself. His coat flew open as he ran toward you, face stripped of all control.
“Iris.”
“I’m okay,” you said quickly.
He dropped to his knees in front of you, hands hovering as if he was afraid touching you would prove otherwise. His eyes moved over your face, your arms, your coat, searching for blood.
