Page 67 of Vicious Betrayal

At the bottom of the hill, I see the cafe, and I spot Reyes immediately, sitting at a corner table near the stone railing overlooking the water. She's dressed like a tourist in a white linen shirt and dark sunglasses, a cup of espresso sitting untouched in front of her, but her posture is rigid, her sharp gaze scanning the approaching crowd.

She sees me. Her chin lifts slightly in acknowledgment. I take a deep breath, clutching the strap of my tote bag, and start across the sun-drenched stone plaza toward her table.

Just hand over the phone. End the nightmare.

Suddenly, a heavy, iron grip clamps down around my upper arm from behind.

The sheer force of the grip stops me dead in my tracks, jerking me backward half a step. A large, familiar hand locks onto my bicep, and the warmth of a towering body presses close to my back, blocking the afternoon sun and casting a long, dark shadow over me.

The air leaves my lungs in a strangled gasp.

"Where are you going, a chumann?" Cormac's rough Irish burr rumbles directly against my ear, low and dangerously calm.

My blood turns to ice.

17

CORMAC

My hand is clamped around her arm like a vise, and beneath the thin linen of her sleeve, her pulse is hammering like a trapped sparrow.

I don't look down at her. I keep my eyes fixed across the sun-drenched stones of the Greek plaza, straight past the blue umbrellas and the potted flowers, directly at the woman sitting alone at the corner table of the cafe.

She's wearing dark sunglasses and a tourist's white shirt, but she isn't on holiday. She can't disguise years of federal training so easily. I can see it in the way she sits, the way she's watching Oksana. Her untouched coffee. The leather bag at her shoulder that she's ready to reach for. Her alertness.

She sees me holding Oksana. I watch the woman's chin lift, the subtle tightening of her jaw as she goes still, realizing that her plans have gone completely to hell.

She knows who I am. And I know what she is.

The cold in my gut isn't fear. It's the terrible, hollow drop of a floor falling out beneath my boots, the sudden, sickening realization that every single thing I've thought was real was all a horrible, too-perfect lie.

And I've been a fucking fool.

"Walk," I say into Oksana's hair, flat and emotionless.

"Cormac—" Her voice breaks into a thin, terrified gasp.

"Move your feet, Oksana. Now."

I don't drag her, but I don't give her a choice. I turn her back toward the alleyway, keeping my body between her and the fed at the café table. If the woman has backup in the crowd, they're too far out of position to make a move on foreign soil without causing an international incident. I listen as we walk, for the scrape of a chair or the quick thump of shoes on stone.

Nothing. The fed is smart enough to know when she's lost. For now, anyway.

Oksana stumbles beside me, her sandals catching on the uneven cobblestones. Her skin has gone ash-white, and her blue eyes are wide and glassy with absolute terror. She's clutching her canvas tote bag against her ribs like a shield, her knuckles bloodless against the strap. "Cormac, please," she chokes out, her breath hitching as I steer her down the narrow side street toward where I parked a day rental. I had a bad feeling I would need it when I left. "Please, just listen to me⁠—"

"Quiet."

I unlock the passenger door with one hand, yank it open, and guide her into the seat. I don't throw her or bruise her, but the harshness of my grip leaves no room for debate. The second she's in, I reach down, grab the tote bag from her lap, and toss it onto the floorboard behind my seat before slamming the heavy door shut.

I walk around the front. The Mediterranean heat is thick and suffocating, but inside my chest, everything has frozen over into ice. I get behind the wheel, lock all four doors, and turn the key. The engine roars to life.

Beside me, Oksana is trembling so violently I can hear her teeth chattering. Her hands are pressed flat against her lower stomach, fingers digging into the fabric over her belly, her chest heaving as if she's drowning on dry land. "Where are we going?" she whispers, her voice shaking uncontrollably. "Cormac, where are you taking me?"

I don't answer. I put it into reverse, whip the wheel around, and tear out of the alley onto the main road, the tires kicking up a spray of white limestone gravel.

She wasn't going shopping. The thought circles through my head. She wasn't looking at baby clothes. She probably wasn't even sick yesterday.

She was meeting a federal agent in the middle of our fucking honeymoon.