**Dahlia**
When Antonio told me to stay, I wanted to throw a tantrum—a full-blown, foot-stomping tantrum. Me, Dahlia Fel, the woman who could silence a room full of hardened officers with a single glare. And yet, here I was, standing silent, my control slipping through my fingers.
Because of him.
Antonio. A man who wielded authority in a way that made it feel like the natural order of things. He didn't demand obedience—he made you feel like it was inevitable and I had realised this when we had been alone earlier. He was a man who thrived on dominance and control.
His words weren't loud, but they didn't need to be, they sink into the air and bend everything and everyone to his will. And I hated how, in this moment, they'd done the same to me.
Was I losing my edge? Or was Antonio simply the one person who could knock me off balance?
The sterile air of the hospital wrapped around me, sharp with the chemical tang of antiseptic. The distant hum of monitors and muffled voices in the hall felt both too loud and eerily far away. Everything about this place screamed of urgency and survival, and yet here I stood, frozen, letting him dictate the moment.
My phone buzzed sharply in my pocket, cutting through my thoughts like a knife. The sound was a jolt to my system, dragging me back to reality. I pulled it out with practiced ease, the glow of the screen harsh against the dim light of the room.
One word.
Red.
My breath hitched, and the blood drained from my face. That single word was a trigger, a spark that lit a fuse of adrenaline coursing through my veins. Falen and I had one rule about this code—it wasn't to be used unless it was a matter of life or death.
My chest tightened, and the hospital's walls seemed to close in, their stark white sterility suddenly suffocating. Every noise around me dulled to a hum, my focus narrowing to that one word staring back at me on the screen.
Antonio re-entered the room, his presence filling it instantly. He moved without hesitation, his steps deliberate but unhurried. His dark eyes fixed on me with an unnerving gaze, reading the turmoil in my expression like it was written in bold print. Was I that obvious?
For a moment, his stoic mask fell away and a flicker of something raw breaking through. Concern? Worry? It was so fleeting I almost doubted I'd seen it. But the way his gaze lingered on mine, sharp and searching, left no question that he'd noticed the shift in me.
"I need to get to my brothers. Now." The words spilled out of me, trembling slightly despite my effort to keep them steady. I was already moving before I'd finished speaking, my shoes striking the tile floor with quick, purposeful strides.
"Dahlia—" Antonio's deep voice followed me, firm and unyielding. But I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
There was no time.
The hospital hallways blurred as I raced toward Trauma Room 7, the sharp clicks of my ankle boots echoing against the tiled floor. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold, artificial glow that only added to the tension. The air was thick and heavy, suffused with fear and urgency, each breath feeling tighter in my chest. My heart pounded, but I refused to slow down. In an emergency every second mattered and I would not risk slowing down for anyone or anything.
I skidded to a halt at the doorway and froze.
Inside, the scene hit me like a wrecking ball, knocking the breath from my lungs. Falen, my eldest brother, stood like an unyielding wall, his broad shoulders squared and his body a living shield for Steven, who lay sedated on the hospital bed. The dim overhead lights cast harsh shadows across Falen's face, highlighting the tension etched into his locked jaw. His dark blue eyes burned with a fierce, protective defiance—an unmistakable expression born only from the instinct of an elder brother ready to defend what was his.
Between them stood a gunman. Young, trembling, his hands clutched the weapon like it was his only tether to survival. Sweat dripped down his temple, his wild eyes darting around the room, taking in every sound and movement with the erratic energy of a cornered animal. His grip was wrong, his stance too rigid, but the way his finger hovered over the trigger made my stomach twist. Amateurs were the most dangerous. They acted out of desperation, without logic, and that made them impossible to predict.
The soft beeping of Steven's monitor seemed to fade, swallowed by the deafening rush of blood in my ears. The tension in the room was suffocating and near unbearable, every second stretching out endlessly. The gunman's presence loomed like a storm cloud, charged with electricity, waiting to destroy all in its way. My pulse thundered as I continued to assess the scene, the urge to act pounding through me with every heartbeat.
The door creaked as I stepped inside, the sound cutting through the fragile stillness. The gunman's head snapped toward me, his wide, bloodshot eyes locking onto mine as the barrel of his gun swung in my direction.
Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to a single, crystalline moment. The sterile tang of antiseptic hung in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of sweat and fear—a combination so distinct I knew it would haunt me forever. The harsh fluorescent lights reflected off the gun's metal surface, the cruel glint mocking the fragility of the human life it threatened.
My hand instinctively went to my side, reaching for the familiar weight of my gun and badge—but all I found was the smooth fabric of my dress. A flash of frustration surged, but then the image of my badge pressed against my hip, where it always belonged, rose in my mind. It grounded me, anchored me, and reminded me exactly who I was.
I sidestepped, the movement swift and instinctive, my body reacting faster than my thoughts. The gunman's aim followed, but I was already surging forward, my hand darting out to clamp around the gun's barrel.
Pop, pop, pop!
Gunshots shattered the air, the deafening sound reverberating off the sterile walls. The room exploded into chaos as plaster rained down from the ceiling, the acrid stench of gunpowder filling my nostrils. The gunman's grip slackened, his wide eyes betraying a flicker of shock. I didn't give him time to recover. My elbow connected with his jaw, the sickening crack echoing louder than the gunshots.
He staggered backward, the gun slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor, but his desperation hadn't burned out. A raw, guttural shout tore from his throat as he lashed out with a wild swing. His movements were frantic, driven by fear and chaos, but they lacked precision. Sloppy. Unskilled. Predictable. I ducked with ease, my body moving with the practiced fluidity of years of training, slipping inside his reach before he could correct himself.
My palm shot forward, connecting sharply with his throat. The blow forced him back, his breath catching in a strangled gasp. He stumbled, clutching at his neck as he fought for air, but I didn't give him the chance to recover. I grabbed his arm, twisting it behind him in one swift, controlled motion, while my leg swept his from under him.
He hit the floor with a resounding thud, the impact driving a pained groan from his lips. Without hesitation, I followed through, my knee pressing firmly between his shoulder blades to keep him pinned. My hands locked around his wrists with firm, unrelenting strength, securing him in place.
"Don't move," I ordered, my voice cutting through the chaos with cold authority.
The room plunged into an unnatural stillness, the kind that lingered in the aftermath of violence. Only the faint hum of medical equipment and the shallow, labored breathing of the subdued man broke the silence.
Falen's shoulders eased, his protective posture loosening just slightly, though his piercing blue gaze remained fixed on the gunman. His jaw was still tight, the barely-contained fury in his expression a clear warning: if the man so much as flinched, there would be consequences.
"You okay?" I asked, my voice steady despite the adrenaline still thrumming through me, like my veins were filled with liquid fire instead of blood. My gaze flicked to Falen, scanning him for any sign of injury, even as my hands remained locked in a firm grip on the restrained man.
"Fine," Falen growled, his voice low and gravelly, thick with barely contained anger. His attention had already shifted back to Steven, his sharp blue eyes sweeping over our younger brother's unconscious form, searching for any sign of harm.
Relief washed over me when I saw that neither of my brothers had been harmed, though it was fleeting. The weight of what had just transpired still hung heavy in the air, tempering any sense of calm. My pulse pounded relentlessly, my chest tight with the remnants of tension, but I allowed myself one brief, steadying breath.
Steven and Fal were safe. For now.
The man beneath me began to squirm, his body straining against my hold in a futile attempt to break free. I shoved him down harder, the heel of my hand pressing into his shoulder as his resistance grew more frantic. With the immediate danger diffused, I finally had a moment to study him.
He bore an uncanny resemblance to members of a gang the station had been investigating for months—The Sinister Blinders. Modeled after the infamous Peaky Blinders of Birmingham, England, who had terrorized the streets from the 1880s to the 1920s, they were notorious for their calculated brutality and insatiable hunger for chaos.
But why here? Why attack a hospital? What could they possibly gain?
"Hey," I snapped, my voice sharp as I pressed him harder into the floor. His struggles increased, but I didn't let up. "Why did you attack? What's your motive?"
The words hung in the air and I stared down at him, my piercing eyes demanding an answer, even as a dark sense of unease crept into my thoughts.
"Fuck you. I ain't saying shit to you, bitch," he spat, his voice muffled by the pressure I kept on his back. His defiance radiated off him like a heatwave, the venom in his words clearly meant to provoke me. But instead of rattling me, it only steeled my resolve.
Adrenaline surged through me, my heart pounding like a war drum. I shifted gears, twisting his arms higher against his back, the sharp motion designed to hurt, to remind him exactly who was in control. His glare was hot and sharp, daring me to falter, but I didn't flinch.
I met his hatred head-on, my icy calm cutting through the tension like a blade. The kind of calm that had broken stronger men than him.
"Why did you attack?" I demanded again, my voice razor-sharp and unyielding, slicing through the thick silence that hung in the room.
His lip curled into a sneer, his teeth bared like a feral animal. "I said, fuck you," he snarled, his tone dripping with venom. His defiance was unwavering, a shield he held tightly, but I could see the cracks forming in his bravado.
I leaned closer, letting my words carry the weight of authority and the promise of consequences. "You'll want to rethink that attitude," I warned, my voice low and dangerous.
He stiffened beneath me, his body instinctively reacting to the shift in tone, but his sneer remained. He wasn't ready to break yet.
But I wasn't done.
Not by a long shot.
A sound behind me made my head whip around, the soft yet made enough noise to draw my attention. My gaze landed on the doorway, where Antonio stepped inside, his towering frame seeming to fill the entire room, casting long shadows that stretched into every corner.
My breath hitched in surprise. I'd completely forgotten he'd been following me this whole time. He must have seen everything—the fight, the takedown, my sharp interrogation. He'd watched it all unfold silently, his dark eyes keenly observing every detail.
And though he didn't show it, I knew he had questions.
Shit.
He leaned casually against the doorframe, his posture the perfect picture of calm detachment. Arms crossed, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame, he looked almost nonchalant. But I knew better.
That casualness was a mask—thin, carefully placed, and designed to mislead. Beneath it, Antonio radiated intensity, the kind that wasn't easily contained. His dark eyes burned with sharp focus, taking in the scene. The weight of his presence was unmistakable, making the air in the room feel heavier, stretched taut like a wire on the verge of snapping.
For a moment, the only sounds were the muffled hum of hospital equipment and the shallow breaths of the man I had pinned beneath me. Antonio's gaze flicked to me, then to the restrained man, and back again.
The tension in the room shifted, the balance of power subtly tilting, as if Antonio's mere presence had tipped the scales in his favor.
"Dahlia."
His voice sliced through the room like a blade heated to perfection—smooth, precise, and impossibly sharp. It carried an ease that belied the weight of his command, a tone that demanded attention without raising its volume.
His expression betrayed nothing, not even a flicker of emotion that might hint at what he was thinking. Instead, his face remained locked in that cold, unreadable mask—the kind of look I'd come to associate with a very specific type of person. The kind of person I worked tirelessly to put behind bars.
"What?" I asked sharply, forcing my tone to remain steady even as my muscles tensed. My face mirrored his detachment, my expression carefully blank. If he wanted calculated and unflinching, I could meet him with the same and mirror it perfectly.
Antonio's dark eyes held mine, steady and intense, as he stepped closer. "Let me hold him," he said, his voice calm, but with an edge of finality. "I don't want you doing that. It's a man's job to protect what's his."
I cocked a brow, irritation sparking to life. The weariness that had settled over me moments ago dissolved, replaced by sharp defiance.
"I don't need that sexist crap. I've got it," I shot back, tightening my grip on the squirming man beneath me, my tone razor-sharp.
Antonio stepped closer, his towering frame amplifying the tension in the room. His eyes stayed locked on mine, unwavering, unreadable. "It's clear you've got it. That doesn't mean you should have to. I'm here—use me."
God. He shouldn't have said use me together like that. Not now. Not with adrenaline still buzzing in my veins, my blood still hot from the fight. The phrase twisted itself into something I didn't need to be thinking about right now.
"Respectfully, I can handle it," I replied, my tone sharper than before, my patience fraying under the weight of his insistence.
Antonio's expression shifted, darkening. His gaze burned into mine with a quiet intensity that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. When he spoke, his voice dropped lower, each word emphasized with unrelenting steadiness.
"Dahlia. Let. Me. Do. It."
The authority in his tone grated against every instinct I had, my jaw tightening as I snapped my head toward him. The audacity of it—the sheer dominance in his words—ignited something sharp and unyielding in me.
"Excuse me?" I said, my voice cutting like a blade.
Antonio held his ground, his tone calm but unshakable. "Use me. I'm here," he repeated, leaving no room for argument.
There he goes again with those words. Frustration flared, mixing with the lingering rush of adrenaline still coursing through me. He shouldn't have said it—not now, not when those words carried a double meaning that sent my mind spiraling somewhere it had no business going.
"Respectfully, I don't need your help," I said curtly, meeting his unyielding gaze with my own.
The room hung heavy with tension as Antonio's gaze sharpened, his patience clearly fraying. When he spoke again, his tone was cold, deliberate, and simmering with unrelenting dominance.
"Dahlia. I will not repeat myself."
It wasn't a suggestion or a plea. It was a command, final and absolute, leaving no room for argument—from me or anyone else.
The sharp retort burning on the tip of my tongue never made it out. Before I could respond, Falen stepped forward, his protective instincts flaring like a match struck to gasoline.
"And who the fuck are you to tell my sister what to do?" Falen growled, his voice low and dangerous, each word laced with unspoken threats.