A small gust of chilly air blows in.
Then something changes in the air—like the second before a thunderstorm when the pressure drops. Every nerve in my body goes on alert.
And in that moment, my morning fractures.
As he leaves, another man enters, casual in a lethal kind of way.
Instantly I size him up. He’s an inch or two over six feet. Long-sleeve black T-shirt. Worn jeans. Combat boots. Like he didn’t plan a single thing he’s wearing, but it’s all exactly right. Broad shoulders. Clean lines. Calm, coiled danger.
He closes the door behind him and scans the shop once—once—and that’s all it takes for the hair on my neck to lift. Not fear. Something worse.
Recognition.
Not because I’ve seen him before. I haven’t. I’d remember a man like him. But because I know what he is. And I’ve been taught to recognize the signs in the way he moves. The precision in his stillness.
He’s not a cop.
He’s something far more frightening.
A highly trained covert operative of some kind, probably. Maybe even black ops. And there’s no question he’s dangerous.
He’s the kind of man I fear most—one who doesn’t just uncover secrets. He weaponizes them.
He heads toward the counter, not looking at me. Which is worse than if he was. Because now I can’t stop watching him. The way he rakes a hand through his dark, mussed hair. The way he thanks Tanja with a nod that somehow feels intimate. The way she blushes.
Of course she blushes.
I look down, suddenly annoyed at myself. I don’t get to be a girl noticing a hot guy in a coffee shop. I don’t get casual flings or forehead kisses or tangled sheets and too much laughter.
I get shadows.
I get lies.
Still… When he turns with his drip coffee—black—and heads in my direction, my pulse goes staccato—skipping, stammering, sprinting.
I tell myself he’s not coming to see me. He’s just passing by.
Until he doesn’t.
He stops. One table away.
Shit.
My heart seizes.
And for a second, we just look at each other.
His eyes are dark. Not black but close. Eyes that have seen things and didn’t blink. Eyes that search me like I’m a mystery he wants to solve.
“Morning.”
Just that. But the word is deep, resonant, hitting me like gravel dragged over velvet.
My voice is steady. “Morning.”
He gestures to the chair across from me. “This seat taken?”
It should be. Self-preservation instinct is screaming at me to say yes. I need to shut him down immediately, turn away, run for the safety of cold sidewalks and late deadlines, and the rules I set for myself when I buried Lyra.
