Wade's hand was around her upper arm, his grip a solid band of heat through the thin fabric of her scrubs. He pulled her toward the break room door, his movement all urgent efficiency. 'We're leaving. Now.'

Truenai didn't resist. She fell into step beside him, her nurse's sneakers silent on the linoleum. Her mind was still back in the break room, on the taste of him and the cold space he’d left between them. Now, there was only the hard set of his profile and the pressure of his fingers.

He pushed the door open, scanning the hallway with a deputy's eyes—left, right, the distant nurse's station, the empty gurneys. Clear. He stepped out, tugging her with him.

The stairwell door at the hallway's end clicked open.

Viktor Sokolov emerged like smoke given form. He didn't rush. He simply filled the space, his tailored charcoal suit a dark stain against the sterile white walls. His cold gray eyes found Truenai immediately, bypassing Wade entirely. A hunter's focus. 'There you are, nurse.'

Wade's body changed. It was instantaneous. Every muscle coiled, his shoulders broadening as he moved, a solid wall of khaki and duty shoving Truenai behind him. His right hand went to his service weapon, thumb flicking the retention strap. The sound was a soft, definitive snap in the quiet hall. 'Stand down, Sokolov.'

Viktor's smile was a slow cut across his face. It didn't touch his eyes. He assessed Wade—the uniform, the stance, the hand on the gun. 'The deputy protecting his witness.' He took one measured step forward. 'How noble.'

From the shadowed stairwell behind Viktor, a slender figure slipped out. Anya Petrova. Her face was the color of chalk, her eyes wide and liquid with fear. She clutched the doorframe, her knuckles white. Her gaze jumped from Viktor's broad back to Wade. 'He has men downstairs,' she whispered, the sound almost lost in the hum of the hospital. 'Two. In maintenance coveralls. It's a trap.'

Truenai’s hand found the center of Wade's back. Not a clutch of panic, but a firm press of fingers against the stiff fabric of his uniform shirt. He felt the heat of her palm through the material, a brand over his spine. 'What now?' she breathed, her mouth close enough that her breath stirred the hair at his nape.

Wade didn't answer. His world narrowed to the seven yards of hallway between him and Viktor. To the two hidden men below. To the woman at his back whose touch sent a jolt through him that had nothing to do with fear. His service weapon was a familiar weight in his hand, still holstered. Drawing it would change everything. Escalate everything.

'You should listen to your little bird, Deputy,' Viktor said, his voice a low rumble. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets, a picture of casual menace. The gesture exposed the tailored line of his suit jacket, the likely bulge beneath his left arm. 'She has a habit of singing the truth when she's frightened.'

'You're in a hospital, Sokolov,' Wade said, his voice flat, controlled. 'Cameras. Witnesses.'

'Cameras can have unfortunate failures.' Viktor's smile widened, showing teeth. 'And witnesses see what they are told to see. A disturbed man. A domestic dispute. A drug seeker causing trouble. The narratives are so... flexible.'

Truenai’s fingers tightened. Wade could feel the slight tremble in them now. Not from weakness. From adrenaline, from the same current that was making his own blood pound. His mind raced, calculating exits. The elevator was behind Viktor. The main nursing station was sixty feet to his left, around a corner. The patient rooms lining the hall had their doors closed.

Anya hadn't moved from the stairwell door. She was a statue of fear, her eyes pleading with Wade. A trapped animal who’d just betrayed the wolf to save the lamb.

'Let the nurse walk to me,' Viktor said, his tone shifting to a businesslike calm. 'This doesn't have to be messy. You can walk away, Deputy. A commendation for trying. No one needs to know you failed.'

'Not gonna happen,' Wade said. The words were automatic, drilled into him. Protect the witness. Complete the mission. But the mission was crumbling under the weight of Viktor's calm certainty and Anya's terrified warning. And under the feel of Truenai, so close behind him.

He was achingly, inappropriately hard. The surge of combat readiness, the primal need to shield her, the memory of her mouth under his—it all funneled into a fierce, throbbing ache behind his zipper. It was a brutal distraction. A humiliating truth. His uniform pants felt suddenly tight, constricting. He shifted his stance slightly, a micro-adjustment to relieve the pressure.

Truenai felt the shift. Her hand pressed harder. She didn't move away. If anything, she leaned closer, the softness of her body aligning with the line of his back. A silent solidarity. Or a tacit acknowledgment of the charge arcing between them, even here, even now.

'He's stalling,' Anya whispered, more urgently. 'The men downstairs… they have a time. A signal.'