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20 — Shatterpoint

Author: Torque Stone
last update Last Updated: 2025-11-30 18:56:16

Smoke curled along the floor like something alive.

Not fire.

Gas—thick, chemical, blooming beneath the doorframes as the building shook with another breach.

Eirwen’s eyes burned.

Her lungs clawed for air.

Domenik caught her wrist before she could falter.

Not gently.

Not kindly.

Claiming.

Grounding.

Dragging her back into her body by the force of his grip alone.

0

“Stay with me,” he ordered, voice low enough that she had to lean closer to hear it.

Even here, even now, he didn’t raise it.

His control was its own weapon.

“I am,” she rasped, fighting the bite in her throat.

“Not enough.”

He stepped into her space, hand bracing the side of her jaw—not stroking, not comforting—holding.

“Look at me.”

Her vision blurred.

Gas. Fear. The sound of boots pounding upstairs.

But his voice cut through all of it.

“Good,” he said when her gaze locked on his. “Again.”

Another explosion rocked the level below.

Talia cried out behind them, her weight dragging on Heller’s shoulder as he half-carried, half-pulled her toward the stairwell.

“We don’t have long!” Heller shouted.

Domenik ignored him.

“Eirwen,” he said softly—dangerously—pulling her focus back. “Inhale.”

She did. Ragged. Burning.

“Hold.”

His thumb pressed beneath her chin, lifting.

“Hear me. Not them.”

Another boot smashed against the door on the far side of the hall.

Eirwen’s pulse spiked.

Domenik felt it—in the tension of her jaw, the tremor in her breath—and something fierce crossed his expression.

A promise.

A warning.

“You move when I move,” he murmured, leaning in until his breath brushed her cheek. “You breathe because I say so. You run only for me. Understand?”

Heat flared in her chest—not sexual, not even romantic—something older.

Something primal.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Not obedience.

Alignment.

His fingers tightened once.

Then he released her.

“Good girl.”

Just two words, quiet and lethal.

And then he turned, catching Talia as she sagged, lifting her more carefully than she’d expect from a man who’d killed with less effort.

“Down the stairs,” he ordered. “Now.”

They moved.

The stairwell was darker than the hall, the air colder, the walls vibrating with the force of the breach teams rising through the building.

Heller stumbled, coughing, nearly dropping his grip on the railing. “They’re coming up from below and above—we’re boxed—”

“Keep moving,” Domenik snapped.

Even wounded, Talia clung to consciousness long enough to dig into her jacket, pulling out the silver drive.

The one engraved with CAYDE.

She pressed it into Eirwen’s palm, fingers shaking.

“Only… you,” she whispered.

Then her eyes rolled back.

Eirwen caught her head before it hit the metal railing.

“Stay with me—Talia—stay—”

Domenik’s hand closed around Eirwen’s elbow.

Firm.

Searing.

Pulling her up and into motion again.

“She’s alive,” he said. “Move.”

Her breath hitched—but she followed.

Every step echoed.

Every echo carried up the concrete shaft, bouncing off the narrow walls, returning as the pounding of boots from three floors above.

“Domenik—” she whispered.

“I know.”

“How do they have your override codes? Those were Laev-only. They—”

“I know.”

The three words were sharper this time.

Not at her—never at her.

At the betrayal tightening around his spine.

Another explosion rattled the stairwell.

Dust rained down.

Heller cursed. “They’re breaching all sides—they want her boxed in—”

“Of course they do,” Domenik said. “She’s valuable.”

Eirwen stiffened.

“I’m not a package.”

He shot her a look—dark, unreadable, hotter than the gas-burn in her lungs.

“No,” he said softly. “You’re a weapon.”

And somehow, in the crush of terror, those words steadied her.

Because he wasn’t lying.

He wasn’t flattering.

He wasn’t comforting.

He was naming something he saw in her that she had never allowed herself to believe.

The stairwell jolted again as the door below blew inward—metal screaming, boots hammering.

“Go!” Heller cried.

They reached the landing between the first and ground levels when Domenik suddenly yanked Eirwen back—slamming her against the wall with his forearm braced beside her head.

Her breath caught.

Not from the impact.

From the closeness.

He wasn’t touching her where he shouldn’t.

He wasn’t even pinning her.

But his presence caged her in, shielding her as the door to the ground level slowly—quietly—swung open.

Gaslight spilled in.

So did a silhouette.

Female.

Tall.

Straight-backed.

A coat like wet obsidian.

Hair pinned high.

Eyes that mirrored Eirwen’s so perfectly it felt like a blow.

The Widow.

Alive.

Breathing.

Whole.

She stepped inside as if she’d been expected.

Boots silent.

Expression colder than steel.

“Domenik,” she said, almost bored. “Still collecting strays, I see.”

Domenik didn’t move.

His body remained a wall in front of Eirwen.

The Widow’s gaze flicked to the hand he held out slightly—protectively—in front of her.

And she smiled.

“A daughter,” she murmured. “Finally standing.”

Eirwen felt her pulse hammer against her ribs.

Her throat tightened.

Her knees went weak in a way she hated—weak in a way she thought she’d burned out of herself.

Domenik shifted just enough to look over his shoulder at her.

Not touching her.

But close enough that she felt the warmth of him.

“Breathe,” he whispered.

Slow burn.

Low heat.

Command without cruelty.

Presence without possession.

Eirwen inhaled shakily.

The Widow watched.

Approving.

“Good,” she said. “You’re learning focus.”

Eirwen swallowed. Hard.

Her fingers dug involuntarily into Domenik’s coat.

His hand closed around hers—briefly, firmly, grounding her.

The Widow tilted her head.

“Well,” she said lightly. “Are you coming with me, Eirwen… or do I tear down what’s left of him first?”

Domenik didn’t flinch.

Eirwen’s breath crushed into her lungs.

The world narrowed.

Boiling fear.

Old grief.

New rage.

And the impossible presence of a mother who should have been ash.

Her voice barely made it out.

“What… do you want from me?”

The Widow’s smile sharpened like a blade.

“Everything.”

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Next: 21 — Widow

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