The dust in the western stairwell is thick, tasting of pulverized concrete, shredded drywall, and the sharp, metallic tang of stressed steel. The emergency lighting flickers, casting long, erratic shadows across the faces of the terrified UN delegates huddled on the concrete steps. Outside, the wail of Geneva’s fire department sirens is a distant, muffled roar, entirely disconnected from the deadly silence inside the compromised building.
I stand at the center of the landing, my tactical shotgun resting against my bruised shoulder. My ribs scream with every shallow breath, and the nerve damage in my bandaged hands flares with a dull, rhythmic agony. But I don't lower the weapon. Through the mate bond, I feel Kade’s physical presence behind me, a solid, unyielding wall of heat and muscle.
