I look down at my hand. There’s a small cut on my thumb where the pen clip snapped, a bead of blood mixing with a smudge of gold flake.
I flex my fingers. The sting grounds me.
I have the poison pill.
I have his motive.
I have his accomplice.
And I have the memory of Talia, pressed against a wall in the dark, telling me she’s not a distraction.
She’s right. She’s the weapon.
And I’m finally ready to pull the trigger.
Chapter 27
Talia
Genny’sapartmentisapressure cooker.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The air feels thick, dense enough to chew, buzzing with caffeine, adrenaline, and fear. The kind of fear that sits high in your throat—metallic, waiting to become something else. Panic. Rage. Resolve.
It’s been an hour since we left the Athletics building, but my pulse hasn’t slowed.
The hum of laptops blends with the smell of stale coffee and the faint tang of solder from one of Genny’s custom-built drives. Every lamp is off. The only light comes from screens—blue, white, punishing.
Nine people.
Nine hearts beating too fast.
Nine bodies stuck in the same suspended breath.
The Line, Clara called us.
I didn’t argue. It didn’t feel like a joke anymore.
Clara and Adrian are a unit on the sofa—his arm behind her, her shoulder tucked against him. Not romantic, not even tender. Just anchored. A formation. Zoë and Gio sit on the kitchen counter, not touching, not arguing, both unnervingly still. Dante and Cole flank the doorway like hired muscle—silent, coiled, eyes tracking everything.
And Declan.
He sits behind me on the sectional, thigh pressed flush against mine. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. His proximity is a statement:I’m right here.No matter what hits the door.
His hand rests on my knee, heavy and warm. I look down at it. There’s a smudge of black ink on his thumb, stark against his skin, and a small, angry cut near the knuckle where the skin is broken. Dried blood mixed with a fleck of gold.
Evidence of something he broke. Evidence of the violence simmering under his skin.
His thumb traces slow, deliberate strokes back and forth on my jeans. It’s grounding and infuriating and comforting and addictive. Each pass sends a ripple through me, heat blooming in a place I shouldn’t be thinking about with all the other people in the room.
But I’m thinking about it.
About the weight of his touch.
About the way his chest rises against my back when he breathes too deep.
About how every time the room tenses, his hand tightens, claiming more space.
And the worst part?
