“You’ll see,” I snap, impatience sharpening my tone. “We just wait.”
She leans back, the soft crack of her neck resonating through the space. Silence settles between us like shifting sand, thick and heavy with tension, awkward in its weight.
I can’t read her fully, but I know she’s calculating, probably wishing this mission were over, maybe even picturing every possible way she could kill me if things go wrong.
“What did you do after the last mission?” I ask, the images of that night pressing in behind my eyes. I remember driving her to the hotel in silence, waiting for her while she changed into spare clothes without a word, not even when she left the car. I thoughtletting her cool off was the safer choice—she was tired, still high from the kill.
“Why are you so obsessed with asking me things about myself?” she fires back.
“Those few times after I killed, I never knew what to do,” I admit, my voice low, almost swallowed by the tension around us. “I felt lost. Disconnected from everything, like my soul had slipped right out of my body. Moving felt impossible, thinking even more so. I just went on autopilot,” I say, shifting the weight of the conversation onto myself as a small shield against the scrutiny in her gaze.
It’s not a lie. Not completely. After a kill, something inside me always craves normalcy, as if pretending nothing happened could erase the blood that stains my hands. There’s the brief, hollow numbness, and when it fades, I want something ordinary. A nap, a drink, a massive burger that leaves grease on my fingers.
If they’re bad people, I barely hesitate. If they’re not… there’s a sting, a sudden spike of guilt slicing through me. But I already know my next move, so why linger on what I can’t change?
“I went out for a burger right after you left,” she says finally, her voice lighter than before. Her eyes meet mine, casual, unguarded, and she shrugs, effortless. “Needed the energy.”
The corners of my mouth twitch before I can stop them. “Oh,” I blurt, realizing how twisted my feelings are. “That’s understandable.”
A smile tugs at my lips, threatening to spread warmth where it shouldn’t. The thought amuses me, knowing full well I’ve done the exact same thing far more times than I care to admit.
“I wanted to eat too. Think we could grab something together after this?” I suggest lightly.
“I don’t want to babysit you.”
Yeah. Too far. Too much.
Or maybenotenough.
Doubt tries to rise, but the pressing need to get this right sears through it like fire. “You won’t be babysitting. I’m buying. We’ll celebrate my success. What’s your favorite filling?”
She pauses, and I catch the subtle shift in her posture, the fraction of hesitation flickering across her expression. She’s weighing whether to agree, and that tiny crack is enough to make me grateful.
“Success is a big word,” she murmurs.
“We’ll see about that,” I reply, teasing, before snapping my attention back to the mission, reaching for the binoculars.
I don’t realize she’s mirroring me until our fingers brush, sending a shock of electricity straight through me. She flinches, and without thinking, my hand moves to hers, pulled by some unseen tether.
The brush of her soft skin against mine sends a shiver racing down my spine, an icy, intoxicating pulse cutting through the desert heat. Goosebumps prick along my arms, and I feel the weight of her gaze tracing every taut line of my muscles, as if she’s memorizing the tension in each, mapping the strength coiled beneath my skin.
Her breath falters, and I draw it in, letting the scent of her perfume roll over me. Sweetness wrapped in luxury, sharp and intoxicating, both a warning and an invitation. It’s dangerous, addictive, a declaration—just like her.
Before I can dwell on it, she retreats, reclaiming her space, leaving me gripping the binoculars so tightly my knuckles whiten. I swallow hard, trying to blink the haze from my mind, but it lingers. I feel as though a live wire has passed through me, sparking beneath my skin, flaring, claiming every nerve, every thought, until all I am is the current.
“Cheese and chicken.”
I turn my gaze to her, trying to read more than the words she’s spoken. I already know what she means, and this time, no effort to hide it—no mask, no restraint—can keep the smile from spreading across my face.
“My favorite burger filling.”
It isn’t evenmidnight when the camp sinks into stillness, blanketed by bodies sprawled across the sand. Faces pressed into the ground, they sleep as the desert sky above scatters its stars in silent imitation—each one a reflection of the motionless forms below.
The faint rustle of sand dies the moment we step into the camp, and I freeze. Glancing back, I see Estella stopping just behind me. I’ve observed her long enough to understand what she is—precision embodied in silence. Even in improvisation, she leaves no trace, nothing that could ever lead back to her or The Order.
Cunning. Stealthy. Lethal.
I watch her crouch, reaching down without hesitation to lift a mid-sized scorpion from the sand. It thrashes, claws flailing in protest, but she only tilts her head, studying it. For a moment, she spins it between her fingers like a child turning a toy—curious, fearless, daring it to strike.
