My dragon doesn’t care about worse. Just wants her to look at me. Wants her scent to stop wrapping around me like a physical touch because even across the table, even in a diner full of other scents, I can smell her—wolf and woman and the faint remnants of arousal that probably only I can detect.
God, she’s beautiful.
Want surges through me. My dragon pushes at my skin, demanding I reach across this table and make her acknowledge what happened between us. Make her admit that when she kissed me, when she was grinding on me with her wetness soaking through to my skin—that it meant something.
Except I’m not certain what it meant.
And pushing her right now would be tactical stupidity.
Why would I even want to, dammit?
So I drink my coffee and watch her study the street and try to ignore how my body responds to her proximity. The way my fire rises when she shifts in her seat. How every small movement registers—the way her throat works when she swallows, how her fingers curl around the mug, the slight parting of her lips before she takes another sip.
Everything about her is fascinating now that I know how she tastes, how she feels, how she sounds when she’s desperate.
Deb returns with food. Eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns. Standard breakfast that we both need after not eating for days.
We eat without speaking.
I watch her anyway. Can’t stop myself. The precision with which she cuts her food. The deliberate way she chews. The flutter in the hollow of her throat. Small movements that shouldn’t matter but do because I can’t stop remembering what it felt like to have my mouth there, to feel her pulse racing beneath my tongue.
Her gaze stays on her plate or the window. Never drifts in my direction.
Halfway through the meal, movement outside catches my attention. Black SUVs. Three of them. Moving slowly down the main street.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
I know those vehicles. Syndicate standard—armored, tinted windows, probably carrying four agents each. Twelve operatives minimum.
They’re here. For me.
I set down my fork with careful control. Keep my voice low. “Nadia.”
The shift in my tone makes her glance up. “What?”
I tilt my head slightly toward the window. “Syndicate.”
Her gaze shifts. I watch understanding cross her face, see her posture transform from tense civilian to field operative in half a second.
“How many?” Quiet.
“Three vehicles. Twelve agents minimum. Could be more.”
The SUVs stop at the far end of the street. Doors open. Agents emerge, dressed in civilian clothes but moving like military. Spreading out. Systematic search pattern.
They’re going from door to door.
“We need to leave,” Nadia says.
“Not yet.” I keep my voice calm. “Running draws attention. We finish eating. Pay normally. Walk out like there’s no problem.”
Her mouth compresses into a thin line, but she nods. Picks up her fork. Takes another bite, even though tension radiates from her.
I do the same. Force myself to chew and swallow while twelve trained killers search the town for us.
The agents work methodically. Starting with businesses on the north side. Showing something—a photograph?—asking questions. Moving to the next location.
They’re three buildings away.
