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Chapter 8: Blood on the Sheets

Author: Phayvord
last update Huling Na-update: 2026-02-20 03:43:00

Bella’s POV

The first gunshot cracks the silence like thunder indoors.

Glass shatters somewhere in the living room. Someone screams—maybe me, maybe not. The world narrows to motion and noise.

Nico fires twice—controlled, precise—before the first intruder even clears the doorway. A body drops. Black tactical gear soaks red across the concrete.

Victor shoves me behind the bed’s headboard. “Stay down!”

I’m already scrambling for cover, naked skin scraping against cotton sheets still damp from earlier. My heart slams so hard it hurts my ribs.

More figures pour through the splintered door—six, maybe seven. Masks. Suppressed rifles. Professional. Not street thugs. These are the kind of men who get paid to make problems disappear.

Nico ducks behind the dresser, returns fire. Another body falls. The room smells of gunpowder, copper, and sex.

Victor grabs his own weapon from the nightstand drawer—a sleek silver pistol that looks too elegant for this carnage. He fires over the bedframe without looking. A masked man staggers, clutching his throat.

“Moretti sent his cleaners,” Victor snarls. “Your uncle doesn’t negotiate anymore.”

Nico’s laugh is bitter, breathless. “He never did.”

I crawl to the edge of the bed, peer around. One of the intruders spots me—raises his rifle.

Before he can squeeze the trigger, Nico tackles him. They crash into the wall. Bone cracks. The man’s mask rips off—young, barely twenty-five, eyes wide with terror. Nico drives an elbow into his throat. The crack is sickening. The body slumps.

Victor is already moving—fluid, lethal. He shoots another in the knee, then the head. Clinical. No hesitation.

I’m frozen. Watching the two men I just had inside me kill without blinking.

The last intruder bolts for the door.

Nico sprints after him. Tackles him in the hallway. More thuds. A choked gurgle. Silence.

Victor crosses to me in three strides. Grabs my arm. Pulls me up.

“You hurt?”

I shake my head. Can’t speak.

He scans me—head to toe—checking for blood that isn’t theirs or mine. His thumb brushes a smear of red across my collarbone. Not mine. Someone else’s.

Nico reappears in the doorway—shirt torn, blood streaking his cheek, breathing hard. His eyes find me first. Relief flickers, then hardens.

“They’re down,” he says. “But there’ll be more. We need to move. Now.”

Victor nods once. “Penthouse is compromised. Island is too far. We go to the bunker under the old warehouse on Flushing. No one knows about it except us three.”

Nico’s gaze flicks to Victor. “You trust me enough to take her there?”

Victor’s smile is thin. “I trust her enough to keep us from killing each other long enough to get out alive.”

I finally find my voice. “Stop talking about me like I’m cargo.”

Both men look at me.

I’m still naked. Still dripping them. Standing in a room full of dead bodies.

“I’m not leaving without clothes,” I say. “And I’m not riding in a car covered in blood and cum while you two play alpha.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then Nico snorts—almost a laugh. “Fuck. She’s right.”

Victor exhales. “Bathroom. Now.”

They hustle me into the ensuite. Nico stands guard at the door while Victor turns on the shower again. Hot water. Steam.

Victor strips—fast, efficient. Joins me under the spray.

He washes me again. Quick this time. Clinical. But his hands linger on my hips, my breasts, between my legs. Not sexual. Protective. Claiming even in crisis.

Nico steps in fully clothed. Lets the water soak him. Washes blood from his face, his hands. Doesn’t take his eyes off the door.

When we’re clean, Victor wraps me in a fresh towel. Nico finds clothes in a go-bag under the sink—his clothes. Oversized black hoodie, sweatpants cinched tight at my waist. Still smells like him.

Victor dresses in spare tactical pants and shirt from the same bag. Nico does the same.

They both check weapons. Extra magazines. Knives.

Victor looks at Nico. “You drive. I’ll cover rear.”

Nico nods.

We slip out the back stairwell—bodies left where they fell. No time for cleanup. Rain has started again, harder now. It washes blood from the hallway floor as we descend.

The SUV waits in the underground garage—same one Nico used the first night.

Nico behind the wheel. Victor in the back with me. Gun across his lap.

We peel out into the storm.

No one speaks for ten minutes.

Then Victor’s hand finds mine. Squeezes.

Nico’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.

“You okay?” Nico asks quietly.

I nod. Lie.

Because I’m not okay.

I’m terrified.

Not just of the men trying to kill us.

But of the men who just killed for me.

And how much I still want them—both of them—even with blood under their nails.

Victor leans close. Mouth against my ear.

“When we get to the bunker,” he whispers, “we finish what we started. All three of us. No more games. No more running.”

Nico’s knuckles whiten on the wheel.

He doesn’t argue.

The city blurs past—wet streets, neon bleeding into black.

We’re heading underground.

Into darkness.

Into the last place anyone will look for us.

And when the door closes behind us…

There will be no more interruptions.

No more uncles.

No more rivals.

Just the three of us.

And whatever twisted, beautiful, violent thing we become when no one else is watching.

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