Welcome back to Warden City, Besties. Luna Gatsby has been rescued…but at what cost?

Having used the former Sgt. Castenburg to force a prisoner exchange with Rost, Bombshell’s plan was to entrust Donovan with getting Luna to safety, while the heroine remained behind to confront, and presumably apprehend, Rost. While Donovan was able to uphold his end, Bombshell’s battle took a much worse turn. The leader of the Crimson Circle proved more than a match for the heroine, stripping off her power belt, then viciously assaulting her. It was all Bombshell could do to escape, leaving Rost to continue his campaign of terror and destruction.

And so Luna was safe, but our heroine paid a high price for the rescue, and the bill is still not yet paid in full…

If you need to catch up on all the perilous action, you can do that here, otherwise, let’s begin…

Chapter Seventeen

Even though it was almost midnight, the street outside the Warden City Police Headquarters was active, if not quite bustling. Warm summer nights kept officers busy, be it with actual crimes, or a rowdy downtown nightlife.

Axis stalked straight past it all.

Her black, crimson-lined cape billowed around her on the night wind. Tall, long limbed, hourglass figure adorned with powerful musculature, she was built like a weapon. Her black velvet leotard clung tight to a statuesque physique, while leaving her broad shoulders bare. The glorious cleavage of her massive breasts swelled through a circular cutout, which was edged with a red ring embroidered to look like blood dripping down over her hard, flat stomach. Black opera gloves wrapped her arms, and elegant thigh-high boots braced her stride. Her platinum hair was tied back in a severe bun. A crimson collar bound her neck.

She looked carved, deliberate, immaculate. Terrifying.

Behind her, four Crimson Circle mercenaries hurried to keep up, adjusting their red rifles, body armor sleek black in the streetlight.

Behind them came the remaining six Marauders, sporting their blood red leather vests, carrying chains and bats. Muttering curses and cracking knuckles.

Axis did not turn. “Quiet.” The word, spoken in her stern Russian accent, froze them. “Be ready.”

Through the glass lobby doors, a desk sergeant leaned over paperwork, unaware. Axis breathed once, measured the layout in her mind: the stairwell, the cells, the armory. All variables accounted for.

She raised her hand and clenched it. Two mercenaries opened the doors. Axis entered.

The sergeant looked up, startled. His hand darted for the radio. Axis was already seizing his wrist, and twisting. Bone cracked. She hurled him against the wall without slowing.

The Marauders burst in, howling. Their job was to subdue any civilians in the lobby. Bust some heads, make some chaos. They did their job well.

The mercs followed Axis into the side corridor. There was shouting. Officers already responding to the commotion. They never stood a chance.

Axis was in motion, closing the distance. One officer, she struck across the jaw, sending him into darkness. The other she seized by his vest and drove headfirst into a doorframe. Both fell silent.

The mercenaries advanced around her, disciplined bursts of fire driving back the next line of defenders.

The Marauders followed, smashing glass and overturning furniture.

Axis kept moving. She flowed through the station like a blade on rails, silent, exact, inevitable. Even as chaos erupted around her. The black velvet hugged every flex of her powerful frame as she took down another “brave” officer. The cutout at her chest and the blood-red ring around it gleaming each time fluorescent lights strobed overhead. Her cape rippled behind her like a black and crimson banner.

Screams, overturned chairs, shattered glass. Gunshots. One of the Marauders went down in shower of gore. That just made the others more dangerous.

The night-shift officers began to form a defensive line. The battle was not likely to last long, but Axis wasn’t waiting. She sprang past the barricades, dashing over crumpled bodies and ignoring the alarmed shouts of the defenders. They could not chase her with the mercenaries and Marauders lining up, digging in opposite them. Alone Axis headed deeper into the station, toward the secured wing.

The signage was plain:

RESTRICTED: STAFF & AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

HOLDING / PROCESSING — LEVEL 2

CONTROL ROOM — NO UNESCORTED ENTRY

She ascended the stairs, ignoring the sounds of death and battle echoing below. The second floor opened into a long, reinforced corridor, the kind built with thick cinderblock walls and cameras in every corner.

She barely spared them a glance. Let them record. Let the city watch if it dared. Just as her Master wanted.

A locked steel door barred her way, marked CONTROL / SECURE OPERATIONS. Through the reinforced glass she could see a small nerve center, the room packed with consoles, wall-mounted monitors showing camera feeds, and a wide control board dominated by the digital panels.

And two officers, staring at her with wide eyes. Shocked, but no doubt secure in their safety behind the reinforced glass.

Axis gave them a faint smirk, drew back her fist, and struck. The glass spider-webbed and shock turned to terror. A second punch shattered it inward with a percussive CRACK!

The two officers began fumbling for sidearms.

Axis vaulted cleanly through the open window. She landed between them, cape snapping like a whip. One officer barely got his weapon halfway up before she seized his wrist, rotated it 360 degrees, then slammed him into a console before he could scream. Sparks burst as the monitor fractured.

The second fired but Axis spun, cloak sweeping forward, enshrouding the muzzle and his aim. The shot tore harmlessly through the fabric and she ripped the gun from his grip, then lunged forward seizing him by the throat.

The guard was a full-grown, well-built, black man, whom Axis lifted fully off the ground with one arm. He grabbed her wrist, squirming and sputtering helplessly, eyes bugging out of his head as she coldly watched him strangle.

“You will show me how to open every cell,” she spoke in a crisp Russian accent. “You will then sit quietly in the corner, hoping we require your help with this equipment, before we require your death, da?”

The man tried to swallow past her impossible grip. He could not. He nodded frantically.

Axis dropped him and he nearly collapsed, clutching his throat and wheezing breath, but quickly staggered to the massive console. As he began flipping switches, Axis scanned the monitors: holding pods, sally ports, evidence lockers, the solitary wing. All displayed rows of prisoners trapped behind electronically locked steel doors.

Axis’s gaze flicked across the monitors until she found the isolation wing: La Falce, alone in a reinforced cell, seated with irritating composure. Two heavily armored tactical officers stood guard outside his door, rifles leveled, posture tight with either readiness, or fear. Either way, she recognized them as true professionals.

Then all at once, sirens wailed. Red lights pulsed. Across the screens, digital locks turned green.

CELL GATE STATUS: OPENING.

HOLDING PODS DISENGAGED.

SALLY PORT OVERRIDE DISABLED.

SECURE LEVELS UNLOCKED.

Metallic clangs echoed through the building as automated doors retracted.

Axis watched this with a sense of satisfaction, not pleasure, just efficiency rewarded. The prisoners swarmed out from the holding floor, their shouting already beginning to echo up the stairwells. The facility was now hers -no, her Master’s.

“Sit,” she said, pointing towards the floor.

The guard quickly slunk to the place she indicated, slumping dejectedly and still rubbing his throat.

“Where is this?” Axis asked, pointing towards the monitor showing La Falce’s cell.

“Isolation Wing B… straight corridor, second left, past the armored bulkhead…”

She was moving before he’d finished talking, each stride sharp and purposeful. The thick concrete corridor thrummed with the sound of motors finishing their cycles. Doors stood open along both sides, releasing the Crimson Circle mercenaries and Marauders who had been captured earlier.

She passed a line of them now spilling into the hall, their faces lighting with recognition when they saw her. She was a vision of elegant viciousness, bare shoulders gleaming under the stark lighting, cape billowing behind her, boots striking rhythmically as she advanced unerringly.

“See? I told you!” one Marauder growled, his meaty arms locked around the throat of a strangling officer. “They ain’t just leave us to rot.”

Axis did not slow. “Take all the weapons you can find and secure this building!”

Shouts of triumph erupted from the Marauders; the Crimson Circle mercenaries answered with curt acknowledgments.

“What about the other prisoners?” a man with a thick Russian accent called out.

Axis didn’t even glance at him. “If they are not Marauders or Crimson Circle, they are a liability. Eliminate them before they become… unruly.”

Two turns later, the air changed. Thicker. Quieter. The kind of quiet designed for men too dangerous to be housed with others. Red emergency lights pulsed along the ceiling, tinting the cinderblock walls a deep arterial shade. A painted line—RED / ISOLATION B—ran along the floor.

Her cape whispered behind her as she stepped through the heavy threshold and into the long, straight corridor. Doors lined either side; thick steel, reinforced glass, electric lock panels glowing green. Most were already empty.

But halfway down, she saw them: La Falce’s cell.

He was exactly as he had appeared on the monitor, seated gracefully at the center of his room, hands folded, posture relaxed, as if awaiting a ballet to begin. He was even still wearing his usual sleek black slacks and shirt, along with a red vest and tie.

His door stood open like the rest of them, and one of the tactical officers standing guard was inside, keeping the automatic rifle trained on the dangerous prisoner.

Outside the cell, the other was watching her approach. Fully armored, ballistic helmet, visor down, rifle at the ready. Professional. He stiffened the instant he saw her and shouted, “Halt!”

She did not.

The guard leveled his rifle and fired in the same motion.

Axis dropped low, cape sweeping, the burst of bullets slamming into the reinforced wall behind her with sparking cracks. She dashed forward, high-heels hammering the floor, and seized the officer’s rifle. With a twist of her wrist and a violent wrench, she tore it free and smashed the butt into his helmet. The blow rang like striking a bell.

The instant gunfire rang out, the guard in the cell with La Falce glanced towards the hall. The assassin was on him in a blur. He seized the rifle barrel with one hand and the man’s visor with the other, yanking him forward into the steel doorframe. Before the guard could stagger back, La Falce twisted behind him, looping an arm around his throat, stripping off the helmet and driving a brutal palm strike into the base of his skull.

The guard dropped instantly, legs folding beneath him in a boneless collapse.

In the hall, Axis pivoted behind the dazed officer, shoving his armored body into the steel wall hard enough to dent it. His rifle clattered away. She jerked the helmet off and smashed it over his head. The man went limp instantly.

La Falce exhaled once, smooth and unhurried, brushing away dust from his crimson vest. “What took you so long, cara mia,” he said smoothly. “For two days I have waited here. It was so…boring.”

Axis crossed her arms, ice blue eyes narrowing. “After your failure to defeat Bombshell, you are lucky my Master did not leave you to rot for good.”

La Falce stepped out, smiling, voice returning to velvet. “And where is signore Rost?”

“En route. We hold this place until he arrives.”

“Then let us make it… accogliente.” His hand extended expectantly.

Axis’s eyes narrowed. She removed a slim wand from the folds of her cloak and handed it over. La Falce’s Hypnostick, the handheld device, topped with a polished light array.

La Falce caressed it like an old friend, then his eyes cut back to her. “Lead the way.”

Axis looked him up and down, before turning away with a huff. “And I was so looking forward to seeing you in a prisoner’s uniform.”

“Abito orrendo!” he scoffed. “No man in this city could force me into one of those jumpsuits!”

They ascended to the main floor, alarms shrieking now like wounded animals. SWAT officers had fortified the corridor to the chief’s office, rifles braced against a barricade of desks and filing cabinets. Their shouts and gunfire cracked through the din.

Axis moved like a phantom, her cape a billowing shroud that swallowed her silhouette. Bullets hissed past, one grazing her shoulder, that would bruise nastily, but she surged forward, seized the barricade, and hurled it aside with an effortless violence that left the defenders shocked and exposed.

The mercenaries surged, gunfire cutting down two officers in the instant of their shock. The Marauders followed, screaming their war cries; reckless, rabid. One of them fell thrashing to the floor with a hole through his chest. The hallway became engulfed by cordite, blood, and chaos. Bodies fell on both sides.

A rifle butt cracked against Axis’s jaw with all the desperate strength of a man fighting for his life. She took the blow, then took the weapon, and a heartbeat later, the officer lay sprawled and twisted at her boots. She advanced, inexorable as the sweep of a scythe. Where the defenders braced, she broke them; where they faltered, she was already upon them. Her cape furled in jagged arcs, blotting sightlines and sowing panic, her movements too fluid to track, too sudden to stop.

Minutes later, as the last defenders were being secured, she passed La Falce in the booking office. Three captured officers sat rigid in their chairs, eyes wide, unblinking, as the Hypnostick pulsed entrancing light before their faces. The Italian’s voice lilted low and steady, filling their empty heads with instructions.

When he noticed her stately form, he flashed a smug grin. “These men have volunteered to be our friendly face for any incoming officers. No one will know what we have done here until signore Rost wants them to.”

Axis’s lip curled faintly. She did not waste words on his parlor tricks. If Rost tolerated the hypnotist, so must she.

The Department was theirs. Marauders armed themselves from the station’s lockers. The mercenaries checked weapons, and delt with any unruly prisoners.

Axis had secured the command office, silencing its staff with calm, crushing efficiency.

When the building was quiet but for the rumble of allied voices, she climbed the last stairwell and pushed out onto the roof.  Cold air knifed across her bare shoulders, snapping her cape like a banner.

Ahead, the helipad stretched across half the rooftop: a faded H ringed by dim aviation beacons, two of them flickering, paint chipped by years of midwestern weather. The city sprawled in every direction, a map of hard neon and restless light.

She strode to the center of the pad, the gritty concrete crunching under her boots. And there she waited, spine straight, eyes fixed on the sky.

She stood alone, waiting. For longer than expected.

Finally, a roar split the air. Engines in the distance. A streak of flame carved the sky. Axis narrowed her eyes as the figure descended, trailed by sparks and smoke.

Rost.

She knelt immediately.

The jet pack thundered as he slowed, lights and gravel shuddering under the wash of exhaust. He landed heavily, boots striking the H dead center.

Tall and broad, he looked carved from stone, and with that crimson circle like a beacon on the black spandex stretched across his massive chest. He disengaged the jet pack with a hiss of cooling fuel. His stormy gaze swept the city before settling on her.

“Slave,” Rost greeted, his voice low. “Report.”

Axis bowed her head. “The Department is secured. The prisoners freed. La Falce is at work. All await your command, Master.”

Rost’s expression did not change. He nodded once. “Then it is almost time.”

Chapter Eighteen

The Sexton Building pierced the skyline like a shard of glass and light, its sleek, high-tech facade a monolith of neon modernity.

Miranda soared towards it, her blonde hair whipping in the night wind, tangled and matted, but then found herself veering. Below the city streets were blurring as tears once more welled in her stinging green eyes. Wiping at them frustratedly, she headed towards the rooftop of a nearby low-rise, instead of the balcony to the penthouse HQ where Donovan and Luna would be waiting.

She couldn’t face them, not yet. Not until she could breathe, not until she could force herself to appear whole.

Gravel crunched, her high heels skidding, it wasn’t quite a crash landing, but with her knees still weak and every muscle screaming from exhaustion, it was far from graceful. Her chest rose and fell sharply, her body aching in a dozen ways, every inch of skin still prickling with the memory of Rost’s hands. His weight. The violation she had endured.

In the distance, the city’s hum felt mocking, its lights indifferent to her pain.

Miranda sank to her knees, her breath hitching as the tears came, hot, insistent, rushing down her flushed cheeks. She looked down at herself in dismay and disgust. The circular cutout at her chest gaped awkwardly, her large breasts straining, threatening to spill out again. She had tucked them back in but haphazardly, mid-flight. The white powerbelt hung loose and askew on her narrow hips, orange LEDs flickering erratically. Below that, her thighs were still sticky, glistening with the remnants of Rost’s vile seed, despite the speed and wind of her escape.

Her stomach clenched and she began wiping at the sticky evidence of his conquest…of her violation. Her fingers shook as they swiped along her legs, brushing quickly, desperately, hating herself for the tremble that wouldn’t stop. Each touch a fresh stab of humiliation.

She realized her pussy was still hanging out too, the bottoms of her leotard twisted to one side. Her labia was still tender from multiple forms of abuse, and twinged sharply as she pulled the Nandex back into place. Miranda cringed and sniffled.

Then one trembling hand went to her chest, tugging on the rim of the boob-window, now carefully adjusting her breasts into a more secure position. Finally, she began to frantically run her fingers through her hair, wincing as they caught on knots. She was trying to settle it into some semblance of order, but her efforts were all but futile against the chaos of her appearance… and her spirit.

Every movement was a war against herself. Against the shame that pressed so deep into her, against the hollow ache in her chest that whispered she was smaller, weaker than she had ever allowed herself to admit. Her crying became sobbing and she folded over on her knees. The weight of her defeat was crushing. Bombshell, Warden City’s proud superheroine had been broken, violated, and reduced to a trembling woman bawling on a cold rooftop.

…With Rost’s words echoing in her mind: “I’ll make you beg to call me Master.” The threat burrowed deep, mingling with the visceral memory of his hands, and his cruelty.

And maybe worse now was the relief. Like a wound, vile and undeniable, she was relieved that Rost was gone.

Even though that left him free to descend on others, to break them instead of her, to victimize them just as he had victimized her. She should have burned with fury, should have hurled herself after him, sworn to stop him before anyone else suffered.

But she didn’t. She would let someone else be the one to suffer at his hands, his voice, his terrible will. And she was glad. Shamefully, desperately glad that it would not be her suffering again tonight.

Her sobs grew harsh, ragged, the thought curdling in her chest. She wanted to believe it was only exhaustion, the bruising ache in her body, the rawness still burning between her thighs. But the truth was sharper, simpler.

Rost had won.

He had broken her. Perhaps not in the way he’d wanted, hadn’t driven her to submission and surrender, hadn’t enslaved her as he had Axis. But he’d broken her spirit beneath that fear and humiliation. What kind of heroine prayed, even silently, that the monster would choose another victim? What kind of savior allowed the thought of another person’s screams…if only to quiet her own?

She had become a superheroine with the vow to fight for those who could not fight for themselves. Yet Rost had left her willing to abandon them. Made her grateful, wretchedly grateful, for the chance to crawl away, to escape, even if it meant someone else would suffer in her stead.

Minutes passed as she bawled on her knees, hugging herself, shoulders shaking. But she knew she had to compose herself.

Luna and Donovan were waiting, and they couldn’t know the full extent of what had happened to her. They needed Miranda, Bombshell, not this broken sobbing girl, not this shattered heroine.

And so Miranda wiped her face, smearing dirt and tears, and took a shuddering breath, willing her composure to hold. She focused on the hum of the city, the familiar sounds distant but grounding. She took shallow breaths, slowed her sobs, anchored herself. Gradually, she allowed her trembling to ease, straightening her back, tightening her stomach and forcing her shoulders square. She pressed her palms together in front of her, willing herself to feel at least a fraction of the control Rost had stripped from her.

Rising, Miranda launched back into the air, her flight steadier now as she soared up to land lightly on the balcony of the penthouse that had become her headquarters. The glass doors slid open, revealing the sleek, all-white lab within, the sterile sanctuary Luna had designed for servicing the Nandex. Its polished surfaces and holographic displays gleamed under LED lighting. The air smelled faintly of ozone and antiseptic, a stark contrast to the grime of the warehouse she’d so narrowly escaped.

Luna was slouched in her rolling chair, her chubby frame wrapped in a jacket that had to be Donovan’s, her long brunette hair falling in disarray.

Donovan was standing near the corner bar (Miranda’s sole addition to the design), looking over the bottles indecisively. His powder blue shirt was still rumpled from the kevlar vest. His Desert Eagle .50 holstered casually on his thigh. One moved toward it as Miranda entered, but he immediately realized it was her.

“Miranda!” Luna’s voice was hoarse, relief mingling with exhaustion. She moved to sit up, started to rise but faltered, her strength sapped.

“I’m here, L,” Miranda all but tackled her, wrapping her in a tight hug and keeping her in the chair.

Despite her exhaustion, Luna matched the fierceness of that embrace.

“I was so worried!” Miranda bleated, tears returning, uncomplicated relief this time.

“Me too,” Luna replied, her own eyes brimming.

They both began to cry, hugging tighter.

Donovan watched the women’s show of emotion, something protective stirring, but also uncertain in him. He stayed silent as long as he could, let them have their moment, moments… but eventually he cleared his throat.

Miranda looked up at him, pulling away from Luna and forcing herself to smile, a shadow of her usual confidence. Donovan’s brow furrowed and she could see the scrutiny in his tense blue eyes, scanning her disheveled figure. Dirty, sweaty, the leotard askew and awkward. Her skin prickled with guilt and shame under his gaze.

He began to ask, “Are you-”

“I’m fine,” she cut him off, voice sharper than intended.

Donovan nodded tersely, “And Rost?”

His name stung and Miranda winced. “He got away,” she forced a flatness into her voice, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face. “I hate to admit it, but that son of a bitch is a tough sonovabitch.”

“Are you okay?” Luna asked, dark eyes heavy with exhaustion, but clear and concerned. “You look-”

“Like I’ve been through a hell of a fight?” Miranda said. “I have…but I- I’m…I’m okay.” She willed her voice to remain steady. “I will be. I’m more worried about you…do we need to get you to a hospital? I had Donovan bring you here in case-”

“I too will be okay,” Luna sighed. “When they first caught me, things got a little…hairy…” She gulped, her eyes flickering with a harrowing memory of her own.

Miranda recognized it instantly, felt it, and her heart split down the middle.

“But actually,” Luna went on, “Rost didn’t hurt me. And wouldn’t let anyone else hurt me. I think he wanted me unharmed to use as ransom, or whatever.”

“Because he knew I’d have literally killed him if anything happened to you!” Miranda declared… despite the absolute certainty boiling in her guts that Rost would have defeated her just as quickly and kept them both as sex slave captives if he wanted.

“But you shouldn’t have come after me to begin with,” Miranda said, moving to hug Luna again. “You can’t put yourself at risk, even for me, especially not for me. Okay?”

Luna gripped her shoulders, pushing the blonde back and fixing her with those big brown eyes. “Listen, bitch, I will never be able to sit here and just let some monster hold you captive, any more than you could let it happen to me. So, if you want my help, and let’s just be honest, you can’t do this without me working on the Nandex…so if you end up in trouble again, just know that I’ll be figuring out a way to help you. Again.”

“And again,” Donovan sighed, earning a sharp glance from the women. “I’m just saying,” he shrugged, “because me too.”

“I’m saying,” Luna turned back to Miranda. “Even after what I just went through, if we’re in this, we’re in it together. You got that?”

Miranda’s green eyes were brimming, both women’s were. Again.

“I…I got it,” Miranda said.

“Good,” Luna slouched, her exhaustion encroaching once more. “That being said, I need a shower and about three days of sleep.”

“Yes, you’ve earned that and more!” Miranda said, helping the brunette out of the chair.

Luna allowed herself to be guided out of the lab area, leaning on Miranda heavily as the heroine’s hands were steady, calming, despite the turmoil beneath the surface.

“Do you need-” Donovan moved to help.

“I got her,” Miranda said, her voice soft this time, but avoiding meeting his tense blue eyes. Hoping to avoid their scrutiny.

Donovan nodded and stayed back, watching, concern still etched on his face.

Miranda guided Luna out of the main space of the penthouse. They each had their own living quarters adjacent to the high-tech lab area. Full luxury apartments, though the sterile architecture never quite managed to feel like home. Luna leaned on her arm, her body still shivering with exhaustion, her brown hair matted and thin.

“I can take it from here,” the brunette murmured, managing a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was trying to be brave, to stand on her own. “Just a shower… I’ll be fine.”

Miranda lingered, her hand still resting against Luna’s arm. For a moment she wanted to ignore the words and stay, to fuss over her like an older sister might, but she caught the quiet dignity in Luna’s voice. With a reluctant nod, she let her go. The hiss of the shower started a moment later, leaving Miranda in the hall, wishing she could do more than watch someone she cared about wash away their tears alone.

Chapter Nineteen

Miranda stepped back into the main chamber, the penthouse lights gleaming over her tired figure. Donovan waited at the bar, a tall silhouette in shirtsleeves, sipping amber liquid, neat, from a rocks glass. Apparently, he’d chosen at last. He looked like he belonged there, composed, steady, as though the night hadn’t touched him at all.

While she, bare-legged in her skimpy leotard, seams tugging high, cleavage gleaming through her boob-window, felt suddenly out of place. She felt raw and exposed, blonde hair stringy, her skin prickled with a constant awareness of every seam and crease. The spandex rode higher than she wanted, a tacky dampness clinging between her thighs. It made her self-conscious as she crossed the floor, pulse thudding at the thought of Donovan’s gaze landing anywhere too long.

His tense blue eyes lifted from the glass, questions already burning behind them, and she rushed to speak before he could.

“Castenburg?”

“On a private jet to Perth, as we discussed, with Ms. Dakota and two million dollars for,” he rolled his eyes, “beer money, I presume.”

“Hopefully he’ll be safe there…as safe as any of us are…”

Donovan gave a faint nod, and gulped some scotch.

“And I guess Patton didn’t give you much trouble,” she went on.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he replied. “I even managed to get some information out of him.”

“Information?” Miranda arched one blonde eyebrow. “In a high-speed car chase?”

Donovan smirked, and it sent a slight chill through her, a very Ashton expression.

“He had a little accident, I stopped to check on him.”

Her chest tightened. “Is he alive?”

“Was when I left.”

“I’m gonna need one of those, aren’t I…” She gestured to the drink in his hand.

Donovan’s expression darkened. “I didn’t tell Luna because she’s been through enough, but…yeah, it’s bad, Miranda.”

Her shoulders slumped. Bad? Is it worse than getting beaten and raped by a bona fide supervillain? Worse than letting Rost get away to continue his evil plans? I’m not sure I can handle any worse news…

“Can it wait?” she asked, voice barely there.

Donovan had set down his glass, pouring scotch from a white labeled bottle into a fresh one for her. He spoke without looking up, “I don’t think so.”

Miranda moved closer, tugging and smoothing the clingy strip of Nandex between her pale thighs while he wasn’t looking. Without her panties it had a tendency for camel-toe, and she could feel it already, damp, sticky, creeping and creasing.

Donovan held out the glass for her, and Miranda took it. The first sip just tasted like Rost’s cum and swamp water. She shuddered, forced another drink, swirling with her tongue in desperate hopes the alcohol would scour some of that vile flavor away.

“So,” Donovan began, picking up his own drink once more, “didn’t you wonder where Axis was tonight?”

Miranda blinked. She hadn’t. The thought only now took shape, and it horrified her. “I…no. Shit. All I cared about was getting Luna back.”

“Right, and while we were doing that, according to Patton, her and whatever was left of the Marauders were attacking Warden City police headquarters.”

Her green eyes went wide.  “What? How? Were people hurt?”

Donovan shrugged. “I called, but it seems like everything is fine.”

“Fine?” The word choked out of her.

“Well, I didn’t ask specifically ‘have you been hypnotized by La Falce.’ But nothing seemed off when I called.”

“Oh my gawd.” Her hand flew to her face, rubbing her temple as that realization slammed into her. “La Falce.”

“It’s the only explanation I can think of,” Donovan said grimly. “Why would Patton lie about it. But if La Falce was already there, which you saw to yesterday, and if Axis broke him out and brought him his hypnosis tools…”

Her stomach dropped. “Then gawd only knows what could be happening up there!”

Donovan gave her a severe nod, then drained his glass.

Miranda’s every nerve screamed that she needed to act. To rise. To fly back into that fight. She could already see it in her mind: snatching one of her spare masks, tightening the powerbelt once more. The LEDs were showing orange (40%, maybe 45%), but maybe there was enough power left to tip the balance. To slow Axis and turn the tide of the assault.

If it wasn’t already too late. If the precinct hasn’t already fallen. If he wasn’t already there.

That thought gutted her. Rost. His face, his hands, the terrible gravity of his voice. Her body recoiled on instinct, a dull ache twisting through her womanhood, raw and tender, each throb a cruel reminder of his violations. The memory of his weight bore down on her, smothering her spirit at the root. Her knees trembled under nothing more than the ghost of his presence.

Bombshell whispered “rise” in the back of her mind, but Miranda could not even raise her chin. She turned away, gulping scotch to avoid meeting Donovan’s eyes.

Cowardice settled heavy in her marrow, colder than lead, and yet shamefully sweet in its poisoned relief. The precinct could suffer in her place. The officers of Warden City PD were the ones suffering, not her. And some sick, miserable fragment of her was glad. Glad she could cower here in her penthouse. Glad she could stay hidden behind silk curtains and glass walls. Safe from Rost. At least for tonight.

Miranda unbuckled her powerbelt, crossing the room to attach the charger. Using that as her next excuse not to face Donovan directly.

“Tomorrow,” her voice cracked. “Tomorrow, we’ll figure out what’s happening. But tonight, I need to take care of Luna.”

Luna needs me.

“Yeah.” Donovan’s voice was tense, but sincere. “You’ve done all you can for tonight.” He turned toward the elevators, shoulders tight. “I’ll get out of here and let you both get some rest…”

Miranda’s pulse spiked. The thought of him leaving cleaved through her resolve. Without thinking, she moved after him, “Donovan, wait,” catching him just as he pressed the button.

He turned at the sound of her voice…and froze at the sight of her. Something had shifted and her raw vulnerability stunned him. Blonde hair stringy and matted, green eyes wide and wet.

Donovan reeled on his feet. He had seen her like this once before, not the indomitable superheroine, not even the feisty stripper she’d been at the Kitty Calore club, but something smaller, utterly raw. A woman stripped of all defenses, shattered by grief and fear.

Before he could react, she closed the distance and hugged him fiercely, arms locking tight around his frame. Her body pressed against his with desperate need, her chest warm and full against his own, soft curves yielding into him. The force of it caught him off guard, but the tremor in her embrace spoke louder than words.

“Thank you,” she murmured thickly, voice muffled against his shoulder. “For helping to rescue Luna. I can’t thank you enough.”

His arms folded around her fragile figure instinctively possessive. “Of course,” he said, “I care about her too.”

“But…” Miranda pressed on, her words trembling, “even more so, I… I never thought I’d be able to trust you again.”

Donovan exhaled sharply, her words cutting through him like a blade.

“But I am glad,” she whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”

It was impossible not to notice the swell of her breasts, the way her subtle curves nestled in his arms, the warmth of her body pressing closer with every heartbeat… Yet beneath it all he felt the deeper truth: she was breaking against him.

“I’m here,” he breathed gently.

She loosened her hold slightly, though her arms lingered as if reluctant to let him go. “Will you stay then? I know there isn’t anywhere comfortable to sleep really, in the lab, but… I think I… and Luna would…we’d both feel better knowing you’re out here.”

The words tumbled out, surprising her even as she said them. The impulse, a need rising too quickly to resist. A soft, feminine desire to be protected, sheltered, and allowed to fall apart. Beneath the trauma and shame carved into her by Rost, something tender uncoiled, an undeniably female yearning to surrender the burden of strength and let a man carry it.

We’re both women, she thought impulsively. Both victims, both broken. We need protecting. We need this man. We need Donovan here.

Miranda, Bombshell, felt the truth seep through her, deep and disarming. The same femininity that had often made her radiant and fierce now made her falter. A woman’s instinct rose within her, to fold into Donovan’s strength, to hide behind him. It was natural, soothing. She could let him stand between her and the darkness. Even if just for tonight.

Donovan’s tension softened slightly, though a tautness lingered in his shoulders. This was not the fearless superheroine of Warden City. This was the woman beneath the mask, his sister-in-law, trembling and unguarded in his arms. With each passing second, the fracture between them felt sharper, the memory of Warren’s funeral gnawing at him…when she had been crushed and alone, and he had been unreachable to her. Siding with his family. He had failed her then, failed to hold her if she’d have let him, failed to offer even the simplest comfort to her when she needed it most.

No wonder she’d hated him so.

And now, here she was again. He wasn’t sure why; was it just the fight? An emotional crash now that Luna was safe? Whatever it was, this time, she had reached out for him.

“…make her feel desired, protected… wanted… those hard feelings will fade.” Monty’s voice echoed in the back of his head.

When Donovan finally spoke, his voice was thick, “Of course, I’ll stay.” His embrace tightened and Miranda softened into him even more.

She almost couldn’t help it, his chest was solid against her cheek, steady and warm, a man’s strength wrapping around her without cruelty, without malice. A longing bloomed in her chest, Miranda let herself cling to that strength, let herself breathe in the scent of him, familiar and grounding. His heartbeat was a steady thrum beneath her ear, protective and unwavering in a way that made her feel safer than she had in…and a while.

Intending to pull away, she lifted her gaze and her breath caught. Those eyes…his eyes, blue, piercing, and so painfully like Warren’s. They held her there. Her throat tightening. She couldn’t look away. Something swelled inside her, hot and desperate, an ache for connection that went beyond words.

She didn’t mean to, didn’t even realized it was happening, but she was leaning closer, lips parting, drawn helplessly toward those tense blue eyes.

And Donovan wasn’t pulling back. His hands lingered around her waist, fingers firm and unmoving, the faintest tremor in his chest betraying that he felt it too.

Her breath trembled against his, the distance between them collapsing until she could feel the warmth of his lips hovering just shy of hers. The world seemed to still, all the jagged edges of fear and grief smoothing away into that dangerous calm his presence instilled in her.

She should’ve pulled back. Every sensible thought in her aching head screamed at her to stop…but Donovan’s hand slid from her waist to cradle the small of her back, guiding her closer. And she let him. Came to him.

Her lips brushed his softly, searching, trembling at the forbidden spark that leapt between them. The kiss was feather-light, accidental, almost deniable.

But when Donovan’s mouth lingered against hers, when his breath drew in sharply and his grip firmed as though he couldn’t let her go, Miranda gave in.

Her walls crumbled completely. She ignored the aching mix of guilt and relief and shame, pressing into Donovan…and for a breathless heartbeat, he was Warren. The echo of her beloved. His scent. The taste of scotch on his lips. Those eyes. But most of all, the sense of safety he instilled.

Warren had always made her feel so safe.

Her lips pressed harder, the trembling kiss suddenly flaring into something fierce, hungry. She clutched at Donovan as if he were a lifeline. Her green eyes squeezed shut, because when she shut them, she could see Warren. Could feel Warren. The warmth of his mouth, the strength in his arms, the safety she’d lost forever.

The tears came unbidden, hot trails down her cheeks as she kissed Donovan with a desperate, painful need, trying to smother the sick memory of Rost’s hands, his mocking voice, the shadow of his assault. If she could drown it in the memory of the only man she’d ever truly loved, maybe the pain would ease. Maybe she could get back in the fight!

Her body leaned into his, aching, trembling, silently begging for more. For an instant, she wanted to give herself over completely, to let him take her, make love to her, make her forget. Whatever it took!

But Donovan stiffened. His hand slid to her cheek, thumb brushing at the torrent of tears. And he drew back, gentle but firm. His breath shook as he looked at her, still so close, lips damp from the kiss they shouldn’t have shared.

“Miranda…” His voice was a low ache, full of restraint and quiet reproach.

She froze against him, breath hitching, lips still tingling from the kiss she hadn’t meant to give. Her body pressed close, yearning for the comfort she could never fully allow herself.

She wasn’t kissing Donovan…she was kissing one ghost, to try and exorcise another.

Donovan’s eyes searched hers, soft, almost aching, but resolute. Though he didn’t have words for this moment, any more than she did.

And Miranda finally unraveled. Her tense trembling collapsed into a grief-stricken slump, the kiss undone before it could soothe, the warmth of his body now a cruel reminder of what she had wanted but could never have again.

Miranda buried her face in his chest, tears soaking into his shirt, hot, ragged, shameful, and every sob that escaped her throat seemed to echo the memory she was trying to erase.

She wanted to curse him. To yell at him for denying her even the fleeting solace of delusion. But all she could do was cling hopelessly to the memory of Warren, so near yet so fucking far away.

And Donovan didn’t let go. He held her as her sobs quieted into a fragile, trembling stillness, every shiver in her limbs a testament to the collision of relief, longing, shame, and fear. She had almost let herself be undone, almost let herself seek refuge in a man whose presence seemed safe, but would have been the ultimate betrayal. To herself. To Warren. And the heartbreak of almost wanting something she could never claim, settled in her bones, heavy, unyielding, exquisite in its cruelty.

As she crumbled, as she broke, Donovan didn’t speak. He simply bent, letting her cling to him, skinny arms wrapping around his neck with a slack desperation born of exhaustion, and of a body and soul ground down to nothing. She relinquished herself to him, every tremor, every shudder, every sob melting into his arms.

He lifted her effortlessly, holding her close against his chest, long legs draped over his strong arms. She felt so delicate and fragile.

Miranda buried her face in the crook of Donovan’s neck, tears soaking his shoulder. Her thoughts splintered. Her mind began to numb, blanking out.

He carried her into her private chamber, the sleek white lines of her sanctuary blurring as she clung to him like a lifeline. Every step, every motion, was a reminder that she didn’t have to fight, didn’t have to be brave, didn’t have to even think. The numb surrender flooded her, and with each shuddering sob, each ragged breath, she melted further, a heroine stripped of her armor, a woman utterly dependent on the man carrying her.

Gently, Donovan laid her down on the bed, easing her into the soft sheets. Her body pressed into the mattress, trembling, still clinging to him as the last remnants of her strength bled away.

Donovan tucked her in with a careful, deliberate tenderness, smoothing the sheets around her, making the world outside disappear. She didn’t speak, didn’t protest…didn’t even lift her head. She simply let him do it, mind blank, soul raw, utterly shattered.

She wasn’t sure if he left. She wasn’t sure of much.

She curled against the pillows, arms limp, body quivering, tears streaked down her cheeks. Her heartbeat eventually eased into a trembling rhythm.

Hours passed. Or maybe only minutes. Time felt irrelevant. Eventually, her sobs quieted into soft hiccups, then shallow, uneven breaths. Her body relaxed finally, completely. Eventually, the tension in her limbs loosened, and sleep claimed her at last.

Donovan did stay with her, not moving, not speaking, watching until sleep fully took hold, guarding the fragile woman the superheroine had become.

Chapter Twenty

Donovan watched the first rays of sun strike the glass tower of Ashtoncorp headquarters. The light rippled across the skyscraper like a slow, golden tide, turning it into a beacon rising out of the receding night. He had never seen it from this perspective before. The city waking beneath him. The skyline softened by morning haze. His broad shoulders leaned against the rail of Miranda’s penthouse balcony, his phone ringing in his hand.

“Bit early for you isn’t it, son?” Uncle Monty answered.

“I’m going to need a team,” Donovan replied, quick and quiet. “Probably twelve, maybe fifteen. Any ex-special forces on the pay roll-”

“What? Hold on, slow down, Donovan.”

“I don’t have time to slow down. Whoever we can get, they have to be here today. Now I know we lost McDermit in that Nepal debacle, but isn’t Kloskey on leave in Capital City?”

On the other end, Monty gave a short, dismissive laugh. “We’re not sending a team to Warden City.”

Donovan’s jaw tightened. “Rost and the Crimson Circle took over Warden City PD last night. This thing has gone from internet rumors and conspiracy theories to a terrorist incident in a hurry.”

“And you want to respond with an unauthorized paramilitary operation that’ll put Ashtoncorp in government crosshairs all over again?”

“What?”

“Take a breath, Donovan. Now you know we’re still laying low in the continental US. Especially in Warden City.”

“Well yeah, but things have fucking escalated since then.”

“I hear you. Alright, let’s get you out of Warden City-”

“What? No.”

“Donovan, I’m not asking. Round up any essential assets and get them out of that gawdforsaken city. By noon if possible.”

“Miranda will never agree to that.”

“We talked about this, convince her, Donovan.”

“Uncle Monty, I believe-”

“Sounds like you’re little superheroine project’s over, boy. If Rost has taken over the cops, that city is about to turn into a warzone and I don’t want you there when it does.”

“Uncle, I told you what we think he’s planning,” Donovan said, “what if he really does get hold of a nuclear bomb?”

“That’s why I want you out. You’re not Pierce, Donovan, Ashtoncorp can’t afford to lose you.”

“If you can get a contingent of men here today, I can end this before that happens.”

“Absolutely not.”

Donovan’s silence stretched. His throat felt thick. For years, he’d obeyed Monty without question, absorbed his ruthless pragmatism, but today, something about it soured in his gut.

“Uncle-”

“When whatever is about to happen there happens, everyone is going to be looking for bad guys-”

“The Crimson Circle-”

Monty scoffed, “Shkrimson circle, crimson shmircle, boy! If there’s even a whiff of our mercs in that city, we will be the Crimson Circle. Win, lose or draw.”

“And how will it look if I evacuate all our personnel just before a nuclear bomb goes off?”

“Didn’t say ‘all personnel’, I said ‘essential assets’. Starting to think that girl’s filling your head with too much sentiment.”

Donovan’s hand curled against the railing. Monty had always been like this but his words had never scraped so hard against Donovan’s bones. He could still feel Miranda’s fierce hug, the way her whole body had shaken against him, helpless and unguarded. The tremor in her arms, the way she’d buried her face against his shoulder like he was the only solid thing left in her world. The same woman who’d all but sworn she’d never trust an Ashton again, never trust him again, had trusted him last night. Needed him last night.

Donovan closed his eyes. Somewhere in the penthouse behind him, both her and Luna were sleeping, however fitfully, vulnerable and under his protection.

Yet, Monty’s voice kept cutting through the phone like a razor. “I take it from your silence, you’re thinking about doing something stupid, Donovan,” his tone softened in the way that razor softens after too many uses, “I need you to be smart.”

A long breath left Donovan’s chest, fogging in the cool morning air.

He stared out at the skyline, at the glinting rooftops, the creeping haze, the precinct somewhere out there already under Rost’s bootheels. He didn’t answer immediately. Didn’t commit. Didn’t rebel. The weight of Monty’s words pressed down on him, heavy and inevitable. For the first time in years, he felt the drag of obedience falter, only to feel the colder truth slide in behind it: Monty was probably right.

The risk was immense. The threat unknowable. According to Patton, they had two days before Rost was in possession of a warhead…but nothing guaranteed they could stop him in those two days.

Donovan swallowed. “I am being smart.”

“Course you are,” Monty said, “cause you’re the future of Ashtoncorp, the future of this family. So, you know what has to be done?”

His jaw worked. “I hear you.”

Monty paused. “Is that a yes?”

The numbers didn’t lie, and for one sick heartbeat Donovan hated himself for seeing them so clearly. He hated how cleanly the math still worked in Monty’s favor, hated that the numbers felt truer, if colder, than the memory of Miranda’s trembling arms around him only hours ago.

“…I hear you,” Donovan muttered again.

“Good man,” Monty said, his tone dubious. “Noon.” Click.

Chapter Twenty-One

The sun had only just begun to lift over the horizon when Chief Wallace stepped out of his unmarked cruiser and into the crisp dawn air. It was too calm. Eerily calm considering the situation. The Warden City Police Department, his precinct, his people, stood like a hulking, wounded beast under the pale light. Several windows were cracked or blown out. Bullet holes freckled the facade. The steps were littered with debris, but everything else was disturbingly quiet.

Officers were arranging barricades, moving civilians back with gentle, hollow efficiency. No shouting. No arguing. No panic expressed out loud. As if everyone knew that acknowledging the tension might crack it open and spill something worse. A drone buzzed overhead, its red eye blinking rhythmically as it traced slow circles above the cordoned perimeter. No reporters either yet, at least. Just the warm hum of engines, the murmur of anxious officers.

Wallace swallowed, feeling the weight of the moment settle across his shoulders like a wet wool blanket. He pulled his coat tighter and stepped forward. A young lieutenant hurried up to him. Her uniform was rumpled, hair pulled into a bun that looked like adrenaline had forced her to redo it several times already.

“Chief,” she said, voice thin. “Thank gawd you’re here.”

“What’s the status?” he asked. His tone felt too steady for how his insides churned.

He’d been briefed on the phone of course, and what he wanted to ask was more along the lines of “how in gawds name could something like this happen?” but he knew the young lieutenant wouldn’t have that answer.

She sucked in a deep breath. “It’s bad, sir.”

That was the sentence no police chief ever wanted to hear. Not like this. Not in front of the building he was supposed to protect.

“Just lay it out.”

“Sir, they’ve fortified everything,” she said. “Near as we can tell, the entrances are barricaded, the internal security systems, as well as all our CCTV feeds are under their control.”

Gawddamn it. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to curse loud enough to echo down the block.

“All of the night shift is basically unaccounted for,” she continued. “No casualty count, no injury update, no bodies, no confirmed hostages. Nothing.”

Wallace’s jaw tightened.

“We know all the cells were opened. No direct accounting of the prisoners either. We can assume the Marauders and Crimson Circle men are working together, but we have zero intel on the other inmates, as to whether they’re collaborating or being held hostage.”

“What about communications inside? Any contact at all?”

“Any direct phone calls have been answered by unknown persons,” she said. “They… uh… they just say everything is fine.”

Wallace balked. “Fine?”

“Yes sir, that’s all they’ll say, ‘everything is fine’,” she shook her head. “It’s probably a script. Their voices are flat, emotionless.”

Before Wallace could press her further, someone else stepped in.

“Chief.” Captain Grant strode toward them, broad-shouldered, geared up in SWAT armor.

“Grant,” Wallace grunted, clasping the man’s hand, “more bad news I assume.”

“And lots of it.” Grant always talked like that, straight, hard, no sugar and no bullshit.

Wallace appreciated that, even when he dreaded what was coming. “What’ve you got?”

Grant gestured for him to follow. As they walked, the noise of the scene swelled around them; the rumble of tactical trucks repositioning, the chatter of officers trying to coordinate, the clatter of more off-duty officers joining the scene.

“The rear entry is being guarded by Crimson Circle mercs,” Grant reported. “Obviously ex-military. These bastards move like professionals, cover angles, fire in formation. I lost two good men attempting to breach.”

Wallace’s stomach dropped.

“There’s a group of Marauders holed up in the garage,” Grant added. “I could push through them but it’s going to turn into a bloodbath.”

The city was waking up now. Soon there would be traffic, commuters, street vendors. Thousands of people unwittingly crashing their crisis.

Grant brought Wallace to the central barricade: police cruisers lined bumper-to-bumper, officers crouched behind them with rifles aimed at the glass entrance fifty yards away.

“We attempted re-entry through here,” Grant huffed disgustedly, “but that metahuman from the bank heist is guarding the front.”

“The woman you mean?” Wallace interjected, “Axis.”

Grant nodded, “Bitch smashed my front men to pieces with her bare hands, sir. We barely got them out of there.”

“Just her?”

“She had back up, more mercs it looked like, but she didn’t need them.” Something like fear etched its way across the SWAT captain’s hardened features.

Wallace ran a hand down his face. A bitter taste filled his mouth, as a cold shiver crawled beneath his ribs.

Grant’s voice dropped to a more solemn register. “We can’t take the building, Chief. Not without heavy casualties. Maybe not even then.”

Wallace stared at him. “You’re recommending we stand down?”

Grant didn’t flinch. “We have no choice but to wait, sir.”

“For what, Captain?”

“Feds? National Guard? Military?” Grant looked him dead in the eyes. “Whoever’s capable of taking on supervillains.”

Wallace found his gaze drifting skyward, thinking: Maybe like a superheroine?

A muscle twitched in the chief’s jaw twitched. Superheroines. Supervillains. The words still felt ridiculous, even after the years of the Scarlet Dove, Dominion, and now Bombshell. He didn’t want to voice it aloud. They’d been working with the superheroine in rounding up all those Maruaders and Crimson Circle terrorists. Filling the WCPD holding cells with Rost’s men.

Like a goddamn Trojan horse.

Was this their plan all along? Or had Wallace and Bombshell provoked it, backed Rost and his ilk into a corner? That was probably an answer Chief Wallace would never get. And now what? What kind of Police Chief needed a pretty blonde in a mask and spandex to save his precinct, maybe his entire city.

He swallowed hard. “Good job, Captain. Keep your men at the perimeter. We don’t want lose any more without a good gawddam reason.”

“Sir.” Grant nodded and moved back toward his SWAT vehicle.

A helicopter roared overhead, blades slicing the air. Wallace flinched as dust blew into his face, stinging his eyes. More engines. More boots. More frantic movement. The media was arriving. The first van screeched to a stop. Then another. A third.

Reporters poured out with cameras and microphones, swarming like wasps.

“Chief Wallace!”

“Is it true terrorists have taken the precinct?!”

“Is this a supervillain attack?!”

“Are officers dead inside?!”

“Is the Crimson Circle involved, can you confirm if the Crimson Circle is involved?!”

Their voices collided, overlapping in a dizzying crescendo.

The once-quiet dawn had become a roaring storm. Barricades rattled. Officers shouted for crowd control. Drones buzzed through the sky. Helicopters descended, circling the WCPD HQ like buzzards.

Whether it was Rost’s plan all along or a last-ditch escalation, the bastard had chosen his battleground well.

He wanted eyes.

He wanted panic.

He wanted the world watching.

The chaos swirled around Wallace, who stood alone in the eye of it.

He looked up at the precinct he no longer controlled. At the broken windows. At the dark, silent interior full of enemies he couldn’t fight.

And his stomach churned, looking skyward once more despite himself; Where are you, Bombshell?

Author’s Note:

Okay, I have to say, turning Axis loose on the Warden City PD was a really fun scene to write. She is another of those characters that has taken on a life of her own. I said, “I want a villainess who is magnificent and terrifying,” and Axis replied, “hold my beer.” –err, or vodka? I guess probably she said, “hold my vodka.”

Part of my stated goals with the Bombshell series was to put a little more super back into my superheroine peril. Sometimes that means letting these people off the chain so they can show us what they’re really capable of. Bombshell has spent a lot of this story showing us how powerful, focused and dangerous she really is…and now the villains are answering back.

And if you’re ready to find out how the stakes get raised next, the full 49 chapter ebook is available right now on Smashwords. It also features the exclusive 6 chapter Villain Ending…in which we “Go much Harder” on poor Miranda:

But if not, that’s perfectly fine, I’m just glad you’re here enjoying the ride with Bombshell and the team! Keep your eyes peeled for the next installment, coming soon!

While talking about “going harder” on my heroines, one of the things I talked most about was letting the peril have some lingering consequences. More emotional fallout. In this part I’m finally getting to explore some of that. In the past a lot of my heroines will just sort of shake the peril off once they escape. The peril always effected them, always meant something, but I didn’t often let the hooks get set too deep.

I wanted the hooks in deep for this. I wanted Rost’s assault to be brutal, and I wanted Miranda to be shaken afterwards. After all the time she’s spent kicking ass in this story, it felt only fitting for a harsh come down.

And of course, she had to be pretty emotionally raw to get that moment with Donovan.

Take Care, Talk Soon,

Your bff, L J