Page 49

She stands beside Jacob, expression unreadable, eyes fixed on Clair like she is looking for an answer neither of us wants to say out loud.

Chicago.

Close work. Front lines. Whether Clair gets to come at all.

My grip tightens around the edge of my notebook.

Clair’s fingers curl at her sides. “Again.”

I stare at her.

She finally looks up. Her eyes are too bright, but her chin lifts anyway. “Again.”

Every protective instinct I have says no.

Every bit of respect I have for her says listen.

So I nod.

I move in slower this time, giving her every chance to stop me.

She doesn’t.

Her shoulders tighten before I touch her.

I hate that.

But I keep my face still. Keep my movements clear. Give her room to choose.

Then I step in close, one arm coming around her, careful but firm, and press the dull edge of the training knife beneath her jaw.

Her breath catches.

Panic locks through her.

This time, she moves before it can own her.

Her chin turns enough to protect her throat. Her weight drops. Her elbow drives back into my ribs, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to break the hold. She twists out of my grip, stumbles, then spins toward me with both hands up.

Breathing hard.

Still standing.

I lower the knife.

She only stares at me before her lips part. “I did it?”

I nod.

Not perfect. Not clean. Not pretty. Perfect doesn’t matter when survival is ugly.

You got free.

Clair reads the note, and something moves across her face too fast for me to catch. Hope, maybe. Or the fear of it.

Then she folds the paper like it might bruise and tucks it into her pocket.

“Again,” she says, quieter this time.