I grab the go-bag, weapon ready. We slip into the hallway. Footsteps echo from the main stairs, getting closer.
Service stairs it is.
Thirty seconds from death, and I’m thinking about waking up with her in my arms. About her quiet rebellion on the couch. About the way she pressed back against me when she woke.
I’m completely fucked.
Because I want more mornings like that.
And thatwantis going to get us both killed.
TEN
Jackson
DIGITAL HUNT
Talia’s handtrembles in mine, that faint vibration running up my arm like live current. The darkness makes every detail louder—her quick, shallow breaths, the rapid drum of her pulse against my palm, the subtle vanilla warmth of her skin threaded with the clean bite of my soap.
I shouldn’t notice this. Shouldn’t register the way her fingers curl instinctively into mine like they belong there. Shouldn’t remember waking with her ass pressed against me, my hand on her bare stomach, her body fitting against mine like we were made for it.
Focus, asshole.
This morning, we were spooning in bed. Now Phoenix is here to put bullets in her head. The whiplash from intimacy to violence should be familiar—it’s how my life works, but something about her makes the transition harder. Makes me want things I can’t afford.
“Stairs.” My voice barely disturbs the air. “Stay close.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. No questions. No statistical analysis. Just trust.
That trust does something uncomfortable in my chest.
I navigate by memory and instinct. Twelve steps to the apartment door. Seventeen to the stairwell. The building’s layout burned into my brain within minutes of arrival—a habit that’s saved my life more than once.
The stairwell door hinges are on the left and open inward. I ease it open millimeter by millimeter, listening. No footsteps. No breathing except ours. But Phoenix operatives know how to move in silence.
“Step when I step.” My lips graze her ear, breath stirring loose strands of her hair. She shivers—not from cold.
We slip through, boots soft on worn carpet. Every shadow could hide a threat. The building’s old HVAC system hums, masking smaller sounds. I lead her past the main stairs, pausing to listen. Silence. Not even a creak.
Good. Maybe they’re taking the elevator like amateurs. Human error. I’m counting on it.
Her hand tightens in mine—a silent question. I squeeze back once. Trust me.
We descend. Her foot finds each step exactly where mine was, learning my rhythm. She’s a quick study. The darkness strips away everything but essential movement, and she adapts faster than most trained operatives would.
But I can’t stop noticing other things. The way her breathing syncs with mine. How she instinctively moves closer when we pause, seeking security in proximity. The heat of her body just inches behind me.
Focus. She’s a package to deliver, not?—
Not the woman who giggled when she put her cold feet on my back. Not the brilliant analyst whose mind works like a beautiful weapon, finding patterns I might miss. Not the contradictionof sharp intelligence and soft curves currently following me through darkness with absolute faith.
Third-floor landing. I signal a stop. She freezes instantly. No sound.
Voices drift up from below. Two men, low, casual—but the rhythm’s wrong. Too measured. Too careful.
“Sweep pattern alpha. Second floor’s clear.”
They’re coming up. We’re going down. Basic math says we’re fucked.
