The tension had been building for months. You’d been on opposite sides of countless missions, always one step ahead, slipping through his grasp each time he got close. Simon Riley—feared, relentless, the best at what he did. And you had stolen intel from under his nose on more than one occasion, pushing his patience and pride to the edge. Each evasion, each mocking message left in your wake, only added fuel to his growing rage.

But tonight, he’d finally caught you. Out in the remote wilderness, with no one to intervene, you both stood on a field of fresh, undisturbed snow. He was done with games, done with the cat-and-mouse chase. You saw it in his eyes—this was personal.

“I warned you,” he growled, advancing, his blade glinting. “I warned you what would happen if I caught you.”

You didn’t flinch. Even with the heavy silence of the night pressing down on you, your own weapon drawn, you met his glare with the same unyielding defiance that had enraged him for so long.

The fight was fast and brutal, a blur of blows exchanged, of near misses and flashes of silver. You dodged, evading the slash of his blade, but he moved like a force of nature, unstoppable. His eyes never left yours, every strike charged with all the resentment, the tension, the frustration that had simmered over every encounter.

A sharp pain blossomed as his blade found your side, a shallow but precise cut. You stumbled, clutching at the wound, your blood spilling in dark crimson drops onto the snow. His voice cut through the frigid air.

“Look at that.” He sneered, glancing at the spreading stain on the once-pure snow. “Bloody snow. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You grimaced, pulling yourself up, defiance blazing in your gaze despite the pain. “Think that’s enough to finish this?”

He didn’t answer. The anger in his gaze had grown cold, but a hint of something else lingered there—respect. As if he almost admired the audacity that had made you stand against him for so long.