The safe house outside Lisbon had been quiet for three days after the attack.
No sirens.
No follow-up teams.
Just the low hum of the ocean beyond the cliffs and the sound of seven men breathing around her every night.
Angel hadn’t spoken much since the safe room.
She’d let them clean her cuts, bandage her scraped knees, hold her when the adrenaline crash left her shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
But she hadn’t said the words that had been burning in her throat since the moment she realized she wasn’t just surviving them—she was in love with every jagged, dangerous piece.
Tonight the living room windows were open to the salt air.
The moon hung fat and silver over the Atlantic.
Eight bodies filled the space—some on the sectional, some on the rug, some leaning against walls—still
