The Villains Must Win-Chapter 331: Apocalyptic Romance 41

Dylan looked at her — really looked — and found himself smiling again despite everything. "Remind me never to underestimate you."

"You already did," she said. "But I’ll let it slide." 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

He shook his head, amused, then glanced toward the horizon where the moonlight began to thin. The night felt endless, yet the smallest sliver of dawn painted the sky in pale gray.

"Sasha," he said quietly.

"Hm?"

"If we make it out of here alive..."

"When," she corrected firmly.

He smiled faintly. "When we make it out... maybe you can share your travels with me? I want to hear what’s in the south."

Sasha chuckled. "I can tell you now."

In Dylan’s eyes, Sasha seemed to glow beneath the moonlight — her hair catching silver, her skin kissed by its soft shimmer. For a fleeting moment, she didn’t look like a survivor at all, but something otherworldly. A goddess born of chaos.

And strangely... she felt familiar. Like he’d known her once before — in another life, under another sky.

====

By the time the sky turned the color of bruised peaches, the rooftop had frosted over with dew and ash.

Sasha stretched the ache from her shoulders and peered across the street’s broken arteries. The undead below had quieted in the cold, a sluggish tide of gray that rose and fell with the morning breeze.

Dylan fiddled with the radio again. Static. A long, hopeless hiss.

"Don’t," Sasha said, smiling without looking at him. "You’ll break the poor thing with your glaring."

He tried not to smile back. Failed. "We should conserve the battery, anyway."

A dull thump carried up from the avenue, faint at first, then rhythmic.

Sasha’s head snapped toward the sound. Moments later, a flare arced up from behind a half-collapsed billboard—green as serpent eyes—then burst into streaming sparks.

Sasha was on her feet. "That’s Cloud’s signal."

"How can you possibly know—"

Another flare cracked the dawn—this one red—and the pattern was unmistakable: two short, one long, one short.

Sasha laughed, all relief and triumph. "It’s definitely them."

Dylan followed her to the ledge and risked a glance down. The armored van nosed into view at the far end of the boulevard, engine purring like a predator, plating scuffed but proud.

Three more figures ghosted through the shadows on foot, moving with the quiet speed of professionals. Cloud in front, and Alvaro a heartbeat behind him, grin visible even through the scarf around his neck.

A third raider covered the rear, a woman he didn’t recognize, calm as stone.

No Ben. No "acting leader." No loud orders or posturing. Just a small team that actually knew what they were doing.

So this is what loyalty looks like, Dylan thought, unexpected warmth crawling into his chest. It annoyed him and softened him all at once.

Sasha waved both arms like an airport marshal, reckless and radiant. "Up here! Third building, cracked rail, hello—!"

A gloved hand covered her wrist and pulled her down just as a curious biter slapped its reaching fingers over the ledge where her torso had been. Dylan dragged her back, heart pounding.

"Right, yes," she said, utterly unbothered. "Forget I did that."

Cloud’s voice crackled in her earpiece—the one Alvaro had retrofitted from spare parts and stubbornness weeks ago. "Hold position. We’ll draw them away. Alvaro, on me."

The van revived. A beat later, music blasted from its speakers—a warped, triumphant march that echoed through the canyon of buildings. The undead turned, their slack faces tilting as one. The convoy horn blared. The woman at the rear fired three precise shots, popping heads like rotten fruit. The horde reeled toward the noise.

Cloud stepped into view below and pointed upward. He mimed throwing. Alvaro unfurled a coil of rope and kissed the carabiner.

"Show-off," Sasha muttered fondly.

The first grapple sailed. It clanged against the edge of the parapet, bit, and held. Cloud tested the tension and jerked his chin. Alvaro put two fingers to his temple in a jaunty salute and began climbing like the apocalypse had replaced his blood with mercury.

"Your boys," Dylan murmured, "are ridiculous."

"Competently ridiculous," Sasha said. "There’s a difference."

They braced as Alvaro swung a leg over the ledge and flowed onto the roof, landing in a crouch so close his shoulder brushed Sasha’s hip. He looked up—mischief and relief and something dangerous flickering in his eyes—and then he had Sasha by the waist, hauling her in, burying his face against her shoulder for half a heartbeat before remembering they had an audience.

"Hi," she whispered, teasing.

"Never do that again," he said, equal parts threat and prayer. "How many times must I tell you to leave the dangerous work to us?"

Cloud’s head rose over the rim next, movements economical, eyes already scanning for exits, sightlines, the wobble in the east parapet. He took in Sasha, Dylan, the bags at their feet, the formless motion below. "We move now. They’re curious, not committed. We keep it that way."

"Nice to see you too," Sasha said, and because she couldn’t help herself, she touched his forearm just once. Solid. Home.

Cloud didn’t flinch, didn’t preen. He only nodded once, a silent noted—and later. Then his gaze landed on Dylan. Something like jealousy—wary, tentative—clicked into place.

"You boys sure are quick. I thought that we would have to wait for another hour," Sasha teased.

Neither Alvaro nor Cloud said a word.

The moment they returned from their raid and realized Sasha wasn’t among the returning groups, something inside both men snapped.

When Ben finally muttered that she and Dylan had gotten trapped on a rooftop during the medicine run, they didn’t even stop to restock ammo or catch their breath.

They just went.

Part of it was worry—Sasha had a habit of diving headfirst into danger—but a bigger, uglier part was the thought of her alone with another man.

Both of them knew exactly how dangerous that combination could be.

"You got her up here alive," Cloud said.

Dylan’s mouth quirked. "She got me up here alive."

Alvaro snorted. "Facts. You don’t look like you’re a soldier or know your way with guns."

The woman at the rear—dark hair, scar through the brow, eyes that missed nothing—shouldered over the lip with a grunt and cut the banter. "Hate to spoil the reunion, but we’re burning minutes."