The corner of his mouth twitches, threatening that dimple. “I think you're terrified of wanting anything.” His thumb brushes my knee, barely there. “I think you've convinced yourself that caring about someone is the same as handing them a weapon.”
Too fucking close, buddy.
I shove at his chest, but he doesn't move.
“You don't know me,” I say, annoyed that it doesn’t come out as convincing as I imagined.
“No?” His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along the choker at my throat. “Then why do you still wear this?”
I grip his chin, because if I have to see that smug smirk one more time I'm scared I'm going to do something stupid like lick it off. “Because it doesn't come off, asshole. You made sure of that.”
“There are ways.” His thumb traces one of the metal flowers. “Bolt cutters. A jeweler. You do have options.”
I shrug, releasing him. “Maybe I like it.”
“Maybe you do.” He steps back, taking all that heat with him. “Or maybe you like what it means.”
My shoulders straighten. “Which is?”
He's already heading toward the lounge, but he pauses at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder.
“That someone gave enough of a shit to mark you as theirs.”
The door closes before I can throw something at him.
I sit there on the counter, bagel forgotten, pulse doing ridiculous things in my throat. The choker feels heavier. Like it's actually made of the promises he keeps trying to force on me. Like there's some secret behind its meaning.
My phone buzzes.
Punk: Schematics uploaded. You reviewing now or later?
Me: Now. Need the distraction.
Punk: From what?
I stare at the front door.
Me: Nothing. Send them over.
The lies come so easily. Even to myself.
Especially to myself.
I crouch behind a rusted shipping container. Tactical gloves, thin enough to feel the trigger, thick enough to avoid prints. Hair wound so tight at my crown it pulls against my scalp—a reminder to stay sharp, stay focused.
“Two guards on the east entrance.” Luce's voice filters through the earpiece, steady and professional. “One smoking. The other's on his phone.”
“I see them.” Breath fogs in the cold November air. Chicago winters hit brutal this close to the lake. The warehouse sits squat and ugly against the water, all corrugated metal and broken windows.
“Heat signatures show four more inside.” Punk this time, keyboard clicks audible behind his words. “Target's in the northwest corner. Second floor office.”
“Security detail?”
“Two flanking. Rotating every twenty minutes. You've got a window in—” More typing. “Eighteen minutes.”
I shift my weight, checking the Glock holstered at my thigh. Two spare mags. Knife strapped to my left calf. Another tucked into my boot. Overkill is just good planning.
“I don't like this.” Daniel's voice cuts through, gruff and tight. “You shouldn't be going in without Leon.”
