“You know how these things are,” I say lightly, my tone almost casual, if you don’t know what to listen for.
He does.
“Everything hinges on the right timing.”
His eyes lock onto mine, and he knows exactly what I’m referring to. Half a conversation overheard, but damning enough to fracture trust clean down the middle.
He holds his aim for another long moment, thinking. I see the minute adjustment of his grip, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his breath shifts as he recalibrates.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifts his gun away from me and raises his hands in surrender.
I don’t move. My gun stays right where it is.
“Who were you talking to?” I ask.
It’s a simple question. Reasonable. Practical. Half the deadliest killers on the planet are hunting me, after all. And yet it lands between us like something far more personal, sharp with an edge I don’t entirely recognize.
He steps toward me carefully, bends, and places his revolver on topof his rifle. Both weapons abandoned in plain sight. When he straightens, his hands are empty as he takes another slow step closer.
“My broker,” he says.
“And what timing is so important, Alejandro?” I ask.
He takes another step. Too close.
“I haven’t stayed out of the Guild’s sights for two years by running headfirst into traps.”
It’s an answer shaped like wisdom. Vague. Defensive. Not actually an answer at all. The actual question is still unanswered.
Another step, and the barrel of my gun presses into his chest.
I can’t mention the missing files. I can’t risk tipping my hand before I know what they mean, before Grim confirms whether this is coincidence or something far uglier. If Alejandro is feeding my location to someone, he’ll deny it without blinking. Worse, he’ll keep me alive just long enough to walk me exactly where he wants me.
No. I have to be smarter than that.
I can feel him using proximity as a weapon, leaning into the space between us, testing whether my resolve will crack under familiarity.
Fine.
I soften.
Just enough.
My shoulders relax. My grip loosens a fraction. The tension leaves my brow, not completely, but enough to suggest hesitation instead of intent.
It works.
I see it in the way his posture eases, the tilt of his head ashis expression shifts from guarded to something dangerously gentle.
He raises one hand slowly and brushes a finger down my cheek, the touch light, reverent, like he’s reminding me of something I’d rather forget.
“We have too many secrets between us, Saint James,” he murmurs.
His gaze flickers between my eyes, searching.
“If your price is a truth,” he continues quietly, “then I will give it to you.”
He pauses, and I can almost see the internal negotiation playing out. What he wants to keep buried. What he’s willing to surface instead.
