​Chapter 14: Echoes of the Hunt

The serenity of the island was an illusion, and we both knew it. By the third day, the air felt heavy, charged with the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike. I was on the terrace, cleaning the soot from my palms after another session with the steel, when the silence of the cliffs was shattered by the rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of a distant engine.

​It wasn't a boat. It was a helicopter, black and sleek, cresting the horizon like a hornet looking for a place to sting.

​"Malakai!" I called out, my voice tight.

​He emerged from the villa instantly. He didn't look surprised; he looked resolute. He was already carrying a long-range rifle, his movements fluid and calculated. He didn't even look at the sky; he looked at me.

​"Get inside, Leona. Down to the cellar. Now."

​"No," I said, the word coming out sharper than I expected. I felt that furious surge of rebellion in my gut. "You said we were partners. You said the bloodthirsty Council would come, and I’m not hiding in a hole like a frightened rabbit."

​Malakai paused, his eyes scanning me with a look that was half-frustration and half-unbridled pride. He stepped close, his shadow enveloping me. "This isn't a training exercise. This is a hit squad. If they get a lock on this position, it’s a total bloodbath."

​"Then let's give them one," I countered, reaching for the holster at my hip.

​The helicopter began its descent, the downdraft whipping my hair into a frenzy. As the side door slid open, I saw the flash of tactical gear. These weren't just street thugs; these were the Council’s "Archangels"—elite trackers who specialized in retribution.

​"Fine," Malakai growled, a dark, malevolent grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Stay low, stay behind the stone pillar, and don't fire until I draw their heat. If you see a opening, you take it. No joke, Leona—aim for the heart or don't aim at all."

​The first shot rang out, a high-caliber whistle that chipped the marble of the terrace just inches from my feet. The world turned into a blur of grey stone and yellow muzzle flashes.

​Malakai moved like a ghost, return-firing with a clinical precision that made my breath hitch. He was a force of nature, a "no joke" storm of lead and anger. But there were four of them, and they were flanking him, moving through the brush with practiced coordination.

​I saw a shadow move toward the side of the villa—a man with a serrated blade and a silenced pistol. He thought he was being clever. He thought the girl was the easy target.

​My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands were steady. I remembered the weight of the iron. I remembered the way Betty looked at me when she sold me. I funneled all that vitriol into my front sight.

​Crack.

​The man crumpled before he even reached the stairs. I didn't feel sick. I felt invincible.

​Malakai glanced back at me for a split second, his flint-colored eyes widening as he saw the body fall. "That’s my girl," he roared over the wind, his own rifle barking as he took down another two targets in quick succession.

​The helicopter pilot realized the "easy job" had turned into a slaughter and banked hard to the left, fleeing back toward the sea. But the damage was done. The sanctuary was burned.

​Malakai walked over to me, his chest heaving, the scent of cordite clinging to his skin. He didn't say a word; he just grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me into a hard, possessive kiss that tasted of adrenaline and victory.

​"They know we're here," he whispered against my lips. "The hunt is officially on."