“With his security detail. He’s demanding reparations.”
“Or?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Xavier’s fingers tap against his desk, an irritating rhythm that makes my jaw clench.
“There’s more,” he says, reaching for a folder. “Kozlov’s second-in-command, Volkov, has been asking questions about you two.”
My spine stiffens. Beside me, Ace goes perfectly still—the kind of stillness that precedes violence.
“What kind of questions?” I demand.
Xavier slides several surveillance photos across the desk. They show a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his left cheek, talking to various people we recognize from Ravenwood’s underground.
“Where you live. Your routines. Who you spend time with.” Xavier’s eyes lock with mine. “He’s looking for leverage. Anyone close to you is a potential target.”
Keira. Our Keira, who finally sleeps through the night without nightmares. Who dances with newfound freedom. Who trusts us to keep her safe.
I glance at Ace and see my own fear reflected in his eyes. His face remains impassive, but I can read the tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his gaze.
“You’re not the first operatives he’s hunted,” Xavier continues, pushing another photo forward. This one shows a burned-out apartment building. “Moscow, three years ago. Kozlov’s men couldn’t reach their target directly, so they went after his girlfriend instead.”
Ace’s fingers twitch toward the knife at his belt. “We’ll handle it,” he promises, voice deadly calm. “Before he finds her.”
I’m already mentally cataloging safe houses, escape routes, and weapons caches. We’ve never had someone to protect before—someone who matters more than the mission, more than ourselves.
“I’ve doubled security at every Blackwood property,” Xavier says. “But this needs to end quickly. I don’t care how you do it, but Kozlov cannot leave Ravenwood alive.”
We leave Xavier’s office in silence, my rage building with each step. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out everything except the thought of Keira becoming a target. By the time we reach the elevator, my fists are clenched so tight my knuckles burn white.
The doors slide closed, and something inside me snaps.
I swing at the elevator wall, but Ace catches my wrist mid-air, his grip like iron.
“Stop,” he says. “That won’t help her.”
I try to wrench free, but Ace doesn’t let go. Instead, his grip shifts, sliding down until he’s holding my hand, our fingers interlocking.
“We keep her safe,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Whatever it takes.”
The elevator descends, but I feel suspended in time, caught between blind fury and vulnerability. The thought of Keira hurt—or worse—makes me want to tear the world apart with my bare hands.
“I can’t lose her,” I whisper, the admission ripping from my throat.
Ace studies my face. “This is different, isn’t it?”
I nod, unable to find words. We’ve shared lovers before, dozens of them over the years, but none like Keira. None who slipped past our defenses and made themselves at home in places we didn’t know we had.
“Do you love her?” Ace asks, his voice barely audible.
The question hits me like a bullet. Love isn’t a word we use—not in our world, not with our history. We weren’t taught to love; we were taught to kill, to survive, to own. But the truth claws its way up my throat before I can stop it.
“Yes.” The admission leaves me feeling exposed. “You?”
Ace’s grip on my hand tightens. “A week and a half ago, when you were meeting with Knox… Keira and I were together.”
I nod, unsure where he’s going with this. It’s not unusual for one of us to be with her alone.
“I almost told her then,” he continues, eyes fixed on our joined hands. “That I love her. The words were right there, but I stopped myself.”
