Harper is the only one who can read Anton’s patterns at the speed we need. She’s the variable I didn’t want to use but can’t afford not to.
“She assists,” I say finally. “Nothing more.”
“Right,” Kiro mutters, crossing his arms. “Duty, not trust.”
I glare at him.
He doesn’t flinch.
I find Harper in the lower operations wing, seated at the long metal table surrounded by three screens and an untouched glass of water. Light intensified from reflecting off the snow filters through the narrow window above her, washing her in pale silver. She’s concentrating so intensely she doesn’t notice me at first.
Her brows are drawn, mouth parted slightly as she works. Her fingers move over the keyboard with a precision that puts surgeons to shame.
A noise escapes me—a breath, maybe, or something less contained, but she hears it all the same. Her head lifts, eyes widening just slightly, like she wasn’t prepared for me toappear in her orbit. She masks it, sitting straighter, rolling her shoulders back as if bracing for interrogation.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I reply, though the word tastes like a lie.
Her gaze narrows. She doesn’t believe me, but she waits.
Kiro slips in, tossing her a tablet.
“Congratulations, Harper. You’ve been assigned.”
She scans the contents. Her skepticism is immediate. “Anton’s pattern?”
“Yes,” I say.
“And you’re giving me clearance?”
“I’m giving you responsibility,” I correct. “Don’t mistake it for anything else.”
She exhales shallowly, controlled.
“Right. Duty. Not trust.”
Kiro glances at me with a ghost of a smirk.
I resist the urge to put him through a wall.
Harper returns to the screen, pushing loose strands of red behind her ear. Her face shifts into focus as she starts tracing routes, dissecting encryption layers, peeling back digital skin until the breach’s architecture is laid open like an autopsy.
Her intensity is magnetic and dangerous.
God, how does she infuriate me so.
My pulse kicks, traitorous.
I position myself behind her, arms crossed, pretending to observe the data.
Her breathing slows when she sinks into problem-solving, just the tiniest crease appearing between her brows. Therhythm of her slender fingers is hypnotic, like she’s playing an instrument only she can hear.
I hate the way it affects me. This fucking familiar fascination coiling in my chest and this stupid marriage that hasn’t shifted the battlefield between us.
She leans in, the light hitting her cheek. Her eyelashes cast faint shadows on her skin. Every part of her feels like a memory I shouldn’t have kept and a future I’m not allowed to want.
She clears her throat.
