The phone slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor. My breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps. I’ve never lost control like this—not since we were children. Not since we swore we’d never be vulnerable again.
“Cyrus,” I manage, getting to my feet. “I need you back.”
For three endless seconds, he remains lost behind that vacant stare. Then a spark ignites behind his eyes, turning emptiness to flame.
With lightning speed, he lunges forward, hands shooting out to grab the lapels of my jacket. His fingers twist the fabric into tight knots, pulling until we’re face to face, our noses nearly touching.
“We get her back,” he growls. His forehead presses hard against mine, the contact almost painful in its intensity.
“We get her back,” I echo, the words a sacred vow between us.
His grip tightens, knuckles white against the fabric of my jacket. I grab his shoulders in return, completing the circuitof tension between us. We’re mirror images of desperation, holding each other on the edge of a cliff.
“No matter what it costs,” Cyrus whispers, his breath hot against my face. “Nothing stands between her and us.”
“We get her back,” I repeat, the mantra steadying me, focusing my scattered thoughts.
“We get her back,” he confirms, our foreheads pressed together, neither willing to break the connection that’s keeping us from falling apart completely.
In this moment, I understand something fundamental—Keira isn’t just something we share. She’s become the third point in our constellation, essential to our orbit. Without her, we’re spinning out of control, celestial bodies on a collision course.
43
CYRUS
We get her back.
Those four words replay in my mind like a battle drum as Ace and I break apart.
“I know where Kozlov stays,” I say, already moving toward the door. “The Blackwood brothers keep tabs on him. We go now. Hit them before they expect us.”
Ace catches my arm. “Stop. Think.”
“Forty-eight hours,” I snarl. “They’re giving us two days to panic while they—” My voice cracks. I can’t finish the thought. Can’t give words to what might be happening to Keira.
“They won’t hurt her yet,” Ace says, his voice steadier now. “She’s leverage. Undamaged merchandise is more valuable.”
I wrench my arm free. “Merchandise? This is Keira!”
“You know what I mean.” His eyes harden. “We need twelve hours. Maximum.”
“Twelve hours she spends terrified, drugged?—”
“Twelve hours to ensure we get her out alive.” Ace reaches for his phone. “We call Xavier. Mobilize Blackwood resources. Track Volkov’s call. Map entry points. We need surveillance, building schematics, and guard rotations.”
I pace the studio. Every instinct screams at me to move, to kill, to burn everything until I find her.
“Every second we waste planning, she’s?—”
“Dead if we go in blind,” Ace cuts me off. “You want to save her or avenge her?”
The question hits like a physical blow. I freeze mid-step.
“Call Xavier,” I concede through gritted teeth. “I’ll contact Felix. Have him help.”
Ace nods, already dialing. “Get locations on Kozlov’s known properties. We’ll cross-reference with the cell signal.”
“Twelve hours,” I repeat, the phrase both promise and threat. “Not a minute more.”
