Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
What are we doing?
The question has no answer. Or too many answers, all of them terrible.
I think about what could have been. In another life—one where I wasn’t an agent, where he wasn’t a superhero, where we met at a coffee shop or a bookstore like normal people—maybe we could have had something real. Something that didn’t involve lies and missions and the constant threat of violence and betrayal.
In that life, I could have told him about my poison.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and it brings a wave of grief so sharp it steals my breath.
He’s the only person I’ve ever touched who didn’t die.
And I’ve kissed him countless times. Deep, desperate, hungry kisses that should have stopped his heart within seconds. Sweet, soft kisses that should have made him foam at the mouth. And every time, he just kissed me back, alive and warm and there. Making me feel like I’d never felt before.
I don’t know why it doesn’t affect him, if it’s something about his enhancements, his engineered biology, or something else entirely, or if it’s all designed by the universe to be yet another sick joke. But he survived me. He’s the first person in my entire life who has.
And I haven’t told him what it meant, that every single kiss was a miracle. I never told him that loving me is supposed to be a death sentence, and somehow he rewrote the rules just by existing.
I never got the chance to.
And now I don’t think I ever will.
Because even if we survive this—even if he decides not to kill me, even if I somehow make it out of his penthouse and back to my team—there’s no going back. The woman he thought he loved doesn’t exist. She was a cover, a performance, a carefully constructed lie.
The real me is the one who left bodies on that warehouse floor.
The real me is the one who was evaluating him for elimination.
The real me is the one who fucked him last night and then tried to run, because that’s what I was trained to do.
Monster, I think. He called me a little killer, but we’re both monsters.
Maybe that’s why we fit.
I get up and dress in my own tank top and knickers, forgoing the bra and tactical pants. No point in full gear when I’ve got nowhere to go.
I sit on the edge of the bed and wait.
He comes for me at dusk.
The door opens without warning, and he fills the frame the way he always does—too big for the space, too much presence for one room to contain. But it’s worse now, because he’s wearing the suit.
The full tactical armor, dark and powerful, the uniform he wears when he’s being Vanguard, America’s Hero, the symbol of everything the country wants to believe about itself.
A symbol of the lies.
“Get up,” he says. His voice is empty, his eyes are blank.
“Where are we going?” I ask warily.
“The roof.”
My blood goes cold. Is he taking me somewhere beyond that?
He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t explain. Just stands there in the doorway, waiting, and I understand with sudden clarity that something has changed. Something in him has broken loose, and I’m about to find out what happens when he stops holding back.
I stand on legs that feel like they might give out.
“I should put on pants…” I say, reaching for them.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says so sharply it’s enough to cut. “Just move.”
I move.
He walks behind me through the penthouse, and I’m hyperaware of his presence at my back. The whisper of the suit as he moves. The heat radiating off his body despite the Kevlar armor. He could grab me at any moment. Could snap my neck before I even knew what was happening.
But he guides me to the elevator with one hand on my shoulder—not gentle, not rough, just there. A reminder that I’m his, for now, and that I go where he takes me.
The elevator doors open. We step inside.
He hits the button for the roof.
The ride takes seconds. One floor. The doors barely close before they’re opening again and when I walk through them, the wind hits me like a fist.
We’re hundreds of feet up, and the November air is brutal, cold enough to make my eyes water, strong enough to whip my hair into my face. The city sprawls below us, a glittering carpet of lights and life, and I’m tempted to scream for help, even though no one would hear me, and he’d probably stop me before I even opened my mouth.
He emerges behind me, the elevator closing with a finality that makes my stomach drop.
“You know what I realized last night?” His voice cuts through the wind, conversational, almost casual. “After you tried to run. After I stood in that hallway shaking like a fucking child.”