I turn toward the window, watching the city blur past. We’ve always been in sync, Ace and I—two parts of the same weapon. Now there’s this unnamed current running between us, and I don’t know if it’s making us stronger or threatening to pull us apart.
38
KEIRA
“Final eight count!” I call out to my dancers as they nail the sequence. “Good work tonight, everyone. That’s a wrap.”
My dancers file out, sweaty and exhausted but satisfied. Marco lingers by the door, hesitating.
“You want me to wait until you lock up?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m fine. Go home, Marco.”
Since Idaho, I’ve felt stronger and steadier. The twins helped me reclaim a part of me I didn’t even know was missing. But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped paying attention to my surroundings.
As I gather my things, I catch movement through the studio’s front windows. A man in a dark jacket stands across the street, partially concealed by a parked van. My pulse quickens. Same build, same stance, same spot—third night in a row.
I turn away casually and continue organizing my bag, positioning myself so I can watch him in the mirror’s reflection. He has broad shoulders, a military posture, and close-cropped hair. Not someone from the dance community. Not someone who belongs.
I pull my phone from my bag without looking at it, muscle memory guiding my fingers to the camera app. I pretend to check my messages, angling the phone toward the window.
Click.
I verify that the image clearly captures him, then open my text thread with Ace.
My fingers type a message.
A guy I’ve spotted for the third night in a row outside the studio.
I attach the photo and hit send before resuming my unhurried packing. I don’t want him to know I’ve noticed him. My phone vibrates almost immediately with Ace’s response.
Stay inside. Eight minutes.
Relief floods through me, followed by resolve. I’m not the same frightened girl from those foster homes anymore. I’m not alone.
I pace the studio floor, checking the window occasionally while trying to appear casual. Seven minutes later, the door bursts open. Ace enters first, his eyes immediately scanning the room for threats, followed by Cyrus, who locks the door behind them.
“Where?” Ace demands, moving to my side.
“He was across the street,” I say, pointing. “By that gray van.”
Cyrus crosses to the window, staying to the side as he checks. “Clear now.”
“How long was he there?” Ace asks, his hand resting at the small of my back, warm and steady.
“At least twenty minutes that I noticed. Third night in a row, same spot.”
The twins exchange a look loaded with meaning. “The photo you sent us of him. He looks professional,” Ace says. “Military stance, tactical positioning, earpiece.”
Cyrus nods. “The way he was angled gives him a full view of both exits.”
“You’re sure it’s three nights straight?” Ace asks me.
“Positive. Same build, same spot, same time each night.”
Ace pulls out his phone to study the image once more before looking up at me with cold certainty.
“Volkov’s men,” he confirms. “Most likely Russian special ops trained. They’re establishing your patterns.”
