“What areyousupposed to be?” I toss back, my voice lacquered with contempt. “A parody of a secret agent?”
He’s wrapped in a turtleneck and jeans so tight they look painted on—the wrong clothes for a mountain, the wrong clothes for a man trying to look dangerous. The whole ensemble is acrime against practicality and taste; pulled together, it reads like theatre-costume bravado. He tries to be menacing and ends up looking ridiculous.
He chuckles dryly. “Very funny.”
“You’re late,” Dante cuts in. The rumble in his voice lands like a fist, and Owen takes a barely perceptible step back, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.
Then he closes the distance between them, eyes flattening into slits in a bad, cheap imitation of menace. His irises are a washed-out color, the kind that suggests someone tried to harden himself and only hollowed out in the process. Watching him is like watching a child play at being a villain: loud gestures, too much breath, no real danger.
We have history with him—a time I’d rather forget, but one that seems unwilling to leave my skull.
“Well, things happen,” Owen snarls, eyeing Dante from head to toe. “You got a problem with that?”
“I thought there was supposed to be more of you. Did they jump out of the van on the way here because you couldn’t shut your mouth?” I ask.
He throws his head back, and a forced laugh rips from him. There’s always that problem with people in this line: they’re either so solemn that they make you want to vomit, or they try so hard they become caricatures. The latter seem raised on spy movies and recycled one-liners, rehearsing menace until it sounds practiced and brittle.
Owen falls into this category.
“You see,” he begins, stepping closer until the cold air between us feels thinner, “they put me in charge. They said you don’t matter. That I can do whatever the fuck I want with both of you.” He punctuates the sentence by dragging a finger through the air between us in a small, arrogant slash, meant to claim space.
I lift my brows, chewing the corner of my mouth like it’s some private amusement. “Did they also tell you to wear skinny jeans and a turtleneck so we’d kill ourselves laughing before the mission even starts?”
Dante chuckles, sharp and quick, almost cutting into a cough. Owen’s face stiffens instantly, the twitch at the corner of his eye betraying him. “Keep joking,Iris, and see where that fucking mouth gets you.”
Heat crashes into my gut like a spark igniting dry tinder. His words drag something old and dangerous to the surface, and for a heartbeat, my hands clench, aching for the shape of his throat. I bite down on my tongue, the metallic tang of blood burning sharp against my teeth—a private proof that I am more animal than human in this moment.
Hearing that name should mean nothing. Two syllables shouldn’t slip beneath my armor and rattle me.
Yet the bones beneath still remember. They echo. They tremble when someone dares to speak the language of the past.
I had believed in absolute control. Now I see that control is more fragile than I ever cared to admit.
My pulse spikes, my heart hammering against my ribs like a wild animal trapped with no way out, every beat urgent and desperate. I feel the flare of each breath, my nostrils widening, the restless tension in my muscles begging to move.
I force myself to remain still, folding the heat inward, compressing it into a narrow, dangerous quiet. My face remains indifferent, bored, practiced. Control is a garment I wear better than most, but it is still a garment, fragile and synthetic, and today the wind wants nothing more than to rip it away.
I feel Dante’s presence shift closer, subtle but grounding. Turning my head, I see him beside me, his arm brushing against my shoulder. The familiar scent of smoke and musk coils aroundme, anchoring me to the moment as I exhale, watching the vapor curl into the cold air like a fragile ghost.
Owen mutters something under his breath, but I block him out completely, ignoring the way he turns and strides back to the van, slamming the door behind him. He settles into the driver’s seat, expecting us to follow, oblivious to the storm of calm fury simmering in me.
I tilt my head back for one last look at the sky, squinting as the sun hides behind ragged pockets of clouds, casting the rugged landscape in a deep, melancholic gold. Shadows stretch long across the frozen ground, and the mountains loom like silent witnesses to what’s about to unfold.
Gathering every ounce of strength, I tighten my shoulders and, with measured, deliberate steps, stride toward the van, each footfall a promise to myself.
Whatever comes next, I will meet it head-on. This is going to be one of the hardest fucking missions of my life, but I’m ready.
At least, I think I am.
“So, therearemore people in here,” Estella mutters, her tone steeped in disdain as we climb into the back of the van. “What could be better than working with so many intelligent people?”
Her sarcasm slices through the stagnant air, but my mind barely registers it. The van reeks of metal, fuel, and faint smoke, yet beneath it lingers her perfume—a sharp, sweet note that pulls me in.
Another body sits across from us—a stranger in the same cramped space—but every sound feels distant, muffled, as if filtered through static. The engine hums beneath us. A cough drifts in from somewhere far off. Everything feels removed, like noise carried from another world.
Iris.
The name rolls through my mind like static electricity. I twist my lips, dragging my tongue across them, tasting it, but I can’t bring myself to say it aloud.
