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)
Of course I understand. I’ve thought of nothing else since it happened. For fifteen years, my kiss has been a weapon. A failsafe. The last resort that guaranteed I could never truly be captured, never truly be compromised, never really get close to anyone, because anyone who got too close would pay with their life.
And now, that failsafe is gone.
I press my thumbnail into my palm until it hurts. Until I feel something I can name, something with edges, instead of this formless ache spreading through my chest like warmth.
Like thaw.
I can’t afford to thaw.
Not here.
Not for him.
“It means I can’t kill him the way I normally would,” I say quietly.
“It means he’s the first person you can touch without consequences.” Kat’s expression softens slightly. “The first person you can kiss, can fuck, can have. Do you really expect me to believe that means nothing to you?”
I don’t answer. I don’t even know what to say.
She sighs, and for a moment, she looks sympathetic, a rarity.
“I have been where you are,” she says quietly. “Not exactly, but close enough. Falling for a target is easy, Mia. So easy. They’re the focus of your attention, your energy, your thoughts. You study them, you learn them, you anticipate their needs, and somewhere along the way, your brain starts confusing surveillance with intimacy.”
“I’m not falling for him,” I say again.
“You’ve already fallen.” She holds up a hand before I can protest. “I’m not saying you’ve hit the ground yet, but you’re in freefall, and if you don’t pull the cord soon, you will crash. And when you do, you’ll take this mission—and possibly this team—down with you.”
I want to argue, to defend myself, but I can’t find the ammunition.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask quietly. “Pull out? Go home? Tell Mank I failed?”
“No.” Kat exchanges a look with Bayo, something passing between them. “What I want is for you to get your head out of your ass and remember why we’re here. Vanguard is a target. He might also be a weapon of mass destruction being controlled by a corporation with ties to human trafficking. Your job is to find out the truth, not to…shag him on rooftops.”
“I didn’t shag him.” Still a virgin over here.
“Details, details.” She waves a hand. “The point is, you need to put distance between yourself and whatever you’re feeling. Put your heart in a cage and lock it. Your hormones too. Be professional. Be cold. Be the operative I know you can be.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then Mank pulls you out, someone else takes over, and they go about it all a different way.” Her eyes bore into mine. “Is that what you want?”
“No.” I swallow hard, finding my resolve. “No, I want to finish this. I need to finish this.”
I need to make up for Minsk.
“Then finish it.” Kat’s voice is final. “But finish it clean. No more rooftops. No more flying off into the night. No more letting him touch you in ways that make Bayo question his life choices.”
“I’d really appreciate that,” Bayo mutters.
I bite back a laugh.
“Alright,” I say. “I’ll keep it professional. I promise.”
“I mean it, Mia,” she warns me. “Don’t make me make that call.”
“I said I understand.” I meet her gaze steadily. “It won’t happen again.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
The silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. Because she knows. She knows this isn’t going to be easy for me. She knows I’m going to fuck up, and I’ll probably do it on purpose.
Then, Bayo clears his throat. “Right. Well. Now that we’ve addressed the elephant in the room—or should I say the multiple screaming orgasms…”
“Bayo,” I admonish.
“Then perhaps we should discuss what I actually learned tonight while you were otherwise occupied.”
I seize the change of subject like a lifeline. “Yes. Please. What did you find?”
Bayo pulls out his tablet, tapping through screens until he reaches a series of photographs. “Kat was busy while you were busy. She got some very interesting shots.”
He turns the tablet toward me, and I see a grainy but unmistakable image of Viktor Kozlov—The Butcher—deep in conversation with a man I don’t recognize. They’re in a corner of the gala, partially obscured by a potted plant, clearly trying not to be seen.
“Who is he talking to?”
“That’s the interesting part.” Bayo zooms in on the second man’s face. Mid-forties, dark mustache and silver temples, expensive suit, the kind of bland handsomeness that comes from good breeding and better dermatologists. “His name is Matthew Webb. He’s Vice President of Special Projects at Global Dynamix.”
Special Projects.
“Like Prometheus?”
“Possibly. Webb’s name appears in some of the files we pulled from the Queens facility, but always redacted or in passing. Sometimes, he’s addressed as Dr. Webb. Whatever he does, they don’t want it on paper.”
I study the photograph, watching the body language between the two men. Kozlov is leaning in, aggressive, making a point. Webb looks uncomfortable but attentive, nodding along like a man who knows he’s outranked.