Page 85 of Knuckles & Knives
“Save that energy for after the fight,” I reply, checking my weapons with professional efficiency. “You’ll need it.”
His grin is predatory and full of promise. “Yes, ma’am.”
The power dynamic between us has shifted, crystallized into something clear and unbreakable. I lead, they follow. I command, they obey. But most importantly, we fight together as equals who happen to have agreed on a hierarchy.
By the time we’re all armed and ready, the tension in the room has transformed from conflict to anticipation. We’re united again, focused on the same goal, operating from the same understanding of authority and trust.
“Insertion point?” I ask.
“Emergency stairs,” Marcus reports. “I’ve mapped the patrol routes. We have a three-minute window.”
“Extraction?”
“Rooftop,” Dom says. “Helicopter standing by.”
“Backup plans?”
“Seven different contingencies,” Kieran adds. “All coordinated with your authority.”
“Chaos factor?”
“Maximum beautiful destruction,” Axel says with satisfaction.
I look around at my four men—my lovers, my partners, my family—and feel that familiar surge of confidence that comes from having the right team for an impossible job.
“Then let’s go remind Richard Sterling why people used to fear the name Blackwood,” I say. “And why they should fear it even more now that I’m not fighting alone.”
The gathering storm is about to break, and we’re ready to ride the lightning straight into the heart of enemy territory.
Time to show the world what happens when you threaten our family.
CHAPTER 26
The emergency stairs echo with our coordinated footsteps as we make our descent into the heart of Sterling’s stronghold. Dom takes point, his massive frame moving with surprising silence, every muscle coiled and ready for violence. Behind him, I can feel the lethal focus radiating from my other three men—Kieran calculating angles and exits, Axel practically vibrating with contained chaos, Marcus processing tactical data in real-time.
But it’s Dom who commands my attention as we reach the staging area. This is his element—close quarters combat, brutal efficiency, the kind of fighting that separates survivors from casualties.
“Movement on the east corridor,” Marcus whispers into his comm, his voice barely audible. “Six hostiles, standard formation.”
Dom’s hand signals are precise, economical.Wait. Watch. Strike when I move.
The first wave of Sterling’s men rounds the corner with military precision, weapons raised, expecting to find emptycorridors. What they find instead is Dom—six feet three inches of controlled violence unleashing itself with surgical precision.
I watch in fascination as my enforcer transforms from the tender man who stress-bakes at three AM into something primal and devastating. His first target goes down before he can even raise his weapon, Dom’s massive fist connecting with brutal efficiency. The second manages half a shout before Dom’s elbow finds his throat.
The beauty of watching Dom fight is in his economy of movement. No wasted energy, no dramatic flourishes. Just devastating effectiveness that comes from years of surviving in underground rings where second place means death.
“Jesus Christ,” Axel breathes beside me, and I can hear the professional admiration in his voice. “He’s not even breathing hard.”
Dom pivots as two more Sterling operatives attempt to flank him, his combat boots finding purchase on the polished floor as he launches himself into a spinning kick that drops one man instantly. The other gets a knife to the gut—not fatal, but incapacitating enough to remove him from the fight.
“Time check,” I whisper into my comm.
“Ninety seconds ahead of schedule,” Marcus reports. “Dom’s efficiency is exceeding projections.”
The remaining hostiles hesitate, clearly recognizing they’re facing something beyond their training. Dom uses their uncertainty against them, closing distance with predatory grace. His hands move like pistons—precise, brutal, final.
When the corridor falls silent, Dom stands among six unconscious bodies, not even winded. His dark eyes find mine across the space, and I see something that makes my pulse quicken—not just the satisfaction of victory but hunger. The kind of primal need that comes from battle-tested adrenaline seeking outlet.
