15-New Threats

Eleanor stepped into the dimly lit kitchen, the quiet calm of the estate wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. She reached for a glass of water, hoping for a moment of peace. But as soon as the cool water touched her lips, she sensed something off. A presence.

Her instincts kicked in, sharp and unyielding. She placed the glass down, her hand slowly reaching for the nearest knife on the counter. Just as she gripped the handle, shadows moved in the corners of the kitchen. Azazel’s men.

They lurked in the darkness, thinking they had the element of surprise. But Eleanor had been through too much to be caught off guard now. Without hesitation, she flung the knife, embedding it into one of the men’s shoulders. His groan was brief before she lunged at the next attacker.

The kitchen erupted into chaos. Eleanor fought fiercely, every strike and block fueled by the anger and defiance she harbored against her father and the life she was trying to escape. Her movements were calculated, her strength unparalleled. One by one, the men fell, underestimating the fierce will of a woman defending her peace.

Outside, the sounds of combat echoed through the estate as Alexander’s men clashed with Azazel’s. The familiar sounds of battle reached Eleanor’s ears, but she was focused on her own fight. She couldn’t let them take away the new life she was beginning to carve out, not after everything she had endured. Not here. Not now.

With a final strike, Eleanor sent the last man crashing into the counter, his body collapsing in defeat. Breathing heavily, she surveyed the room. The kitchen, once serene, was now littered with unconscious bodies. Blood smeared on the floor, but Eleanor stood tall, her determination shining through the darkness.

She had fought for her peace. And she had won. But as she stood there, catching her breath, she knew this wasn't over. Azazel wasn’t going to stop.

And neither was she.

Eleanor wiped the sweat from her brow, her heart still pounding from the fight in the kitchen. She could hear the sounds of combat outside—grunts, the clash of metal, and the muffled cries of Azazel's men trying to breach the estate. Without hesitation, she made her way to the front door, her adrenaline still surging.

As she stepped outside, the scene was chaotic. Alexander’s men were fighting valiantly, but they were outnumbered. Azazel’s soldiers were relentless, determined to tear down everything that stood between them and their goal: Eleanor.

Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t going to stand by while they attacked the place she had just begun to consider a home.

Picking up a fallen weapon from one of the intruders, Eleanor charged into the fray. Her presence shocked both sides. She fought with a fierce, unwavering determination, her movements swift and deadly. One of Azazel’s men lunged at her, but she ducked under his arm and struck him in the ribs, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Another came at her from the side, and she met him head-on, blocking his swing and countering with a brutal kick to his chest. He stumbled backward, giving one of Alexander's men the chance to finish him off.

The men from both sides looked on in awe as Eleanor fought beside Alexander's soldiers, her fury unstoppable. She had always been strong, but this was something else. It wasn’t just strength—it was survival. It was the raw desire to protect the life she was trying to build.

One by one, the remaining attackers fell, unable to match her intensity. She had been a target for far too long, and now, she was fighting back on her own terms.

As the last of Azazel’s men retreated into the night, Eleanor stood in the middle of the courtyard, panting heavily. Blood stained her clothes, but her spirit remained unbroken. She glanced around at Alexander’s men, who were equally as stunned as they were grateful.

One of them, breathing hard, approached her. "Miss Eleanor... that was incredible. You saved us."

But Eleanor simply shook her head. "We saved each other."

She turned her gaze toward the horizon, knowing that this victory was only temporary. Azazel would try again. But now, she knew she wasn’t alone in this fight.

And she was ready for whatever came next.

As Alexander’s car pulled up to the estate, he was immediately struck by the sight of bodies scattered across the grounds. His heart raced, alarmed by the chaos that greeted him. He stepped out of the vehicle, surveying the aftermath of a brutal battle. Blood stained the earth, and the air was heavy with the lingering tension of violence.

His eyes scanned the area until they landed on a familiar figure—Eleanor. She was crouched down, tending to one of his wounded men, her hands steady as she pressed a bandage against his arm. Her face was focused, her clothes marked with dirt and blood, but her movements were calm and confident. A few of the other men, who had gathered medical supplies, handed her what she needed as she worked with surprising skill.

Alexander’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected to return to this—an assault on his home while he was away. But what truly caught him off guard was the sight of Eleanor, not just surviving the attack but actively helping his soldiers, caring for them as if they were her own.

He watched as she moved to another injured man, applying pressure to a wound, her voice soft but firm as she reassured him. The men around her looked at her with respect and admiration, grateful for her strength and kindness.

Alexander’s heart swelled with a mix of pride and possessive protectiveness. She wasn’t just enduring this life she had been thrust into—she was thriving in it, showing the depth of her resilience and compassion. But at the same time, he couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that had settled in his gut. This was too close. She had been in danger, and even though she had fought valiantly, he couldn’t stand the thought of her facing such threats without him.

Slowly, he approached her, his presence commanding as he made his way across the courtyard. Eleanor sensed him before she saw him, her head turning slightly as he came into view.

“Alexander,” she said softly, not breaking from her task as she finished bandaging the soldier’s arm. “It was Azazel’s men. They attacked again. But we handled it.”

Alexander’s gaze darkened at the mention of her father’s name. His fists clenched at his sides, though he forced himself to relax as he knelt beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Handled?" he echoed, his voice low and intense. "You shouldn’t have had to handle anything, Eleanor. Not alone."

She glanced up at him, her expression unwavering. "I wasn’t alone. Your men fought, and I fought with them. We survived. That’s all that matters right now."

He couldn’t argue with that, but the frustration of not being there to protect her gnawed at him. He looked around at the wounded men, their loyalty to him unshaken despite the ambush. "My men are in good hands, thanks to you."

Eleanor smiled slightly, though there was weariness in her eyes. "We all did what we had to do."

Alexander’s chest tightened as he watched her. He wanted to shield her from this—this life of blood and danger. But she was showing him that she wasn’t some fragile woman in need of saving. She was stronger than he ever gave her credit for. Still, it didn’t ease the possessiveness that gripped him.

He leaned in, his voice a whisper meant only for her. "I’ll never let anyone harm you, Eleanor. You’re mine. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe."

She met his gaze, a mix of defiance and acceptance flickering in her eyes. "I’m not going anywhere, Alexander. But I won’t sit back and let others fight my battles either."

For a moment, the world around them faded, the chaos, the bloodshed—all of it secondary to the tension between them. Alexander’s hand tightened slightly on her shoulder as his thumb brushed against her skin.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice heavy with emotion. “But you’ll never have to fight alone.”

He stood up, offering her his hand. Eleanor took it, and together, they walked toward the estate, where the real battle for their future would continue.