I shake my head. “It’s over, Cortez.”
He starts to raise the gun, but Nikola is faster. A silenced round, just one, perfect and neat. Cortez slumps back, eyes wide but already gone. No sound but the rain against the glass.
Nikola checks the body, then nods to me. “It’s done.”
We move quickly, cleaning the room, making sure there’s nothing left that could lead back to us. I wipe my prints from the doorknob, tuck the pistol away, glance once more at the slack face on the bed.
For months, Cortez has haunted us—whispers of his alliances, his betrayals, the jobs he sold out from under Leon. And now, it’s over. No chase or firefight. It’s a relief.
We step back out into the hallway, into the rain. My heart is still pounding, but there’s a strange relief under the tension, a weight lifted, a promise kept. The city feels different now, less like a battlefield, more like home.
Nikola claps me on the shoulder as we reach the car. “You did good,” he says quietly.
I let out a long, shaky breath. “Wasn’t looking for glory.”
“Never are,” he answers, sliding into the driver’s seat. “You’re the one they call when it needs to be finished.”
We pull away, the lights of the brownstone fading behind us. I watch the city roll by, each block a little brighter. I think about Eden, about the world we’re building—one problem, one threat at a time.
I sink back in the seat, letting the exhaustion settle.
“It’s done,” I whisper to myself, to the city, to the ghosts we leave behind. “We’re safe. For now.”
Nikola glances at me, a small smile ghosting his mouth. “For now.”
The rain blurs the windows, and for the first time in months, I feel like I can breathe. There’s no glory in this work, but there’s peace. That’s enough.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Eden
Night falls slow and deep, cloaking the world beyond our windows in quiet shadow. I’m already tucked into bed, half sitting with pillows behind my back, a book forgotten on my lap. My body feels heavy, achy in a way that’s both new and strangely reassuring.
The baby moves—a gentle roll—and I stroke a hand over my belly, grounding myself.
Simon appears in the doorway, his silhouette familiar and commanding even in the soft light. The moment he enters, the air shifts—charged, electric, threaded with a tension I feel everywhere: in my throat, my chest, low and wanting between my thighs. His gaze finds mine, lingering, hungry.
I know that look. I crave it.
He moves toward me with that quiet certainty, every step careful. The world outside may require violence from him, but here, every instinct is shaped by gentleness. He sits beside me, brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek, his fingers lingering as if he needs to remind himself I’m real.
“Are you tired?” he murmurs, voice rough and warm.
I shake my head, my smile soft but full of promise. “Not too tired for you.”
His hand slides over my shoulder, down my arm, fingertips tracing the curve of my wrist. I shiver, letting myself melt back into the pillows.
He’s careful, always—watching me, gauging my comfort, never rushing. His hand covers my belly, thumb stroking slow circles that send warmth spiraling through me.
I reach for him, threading my fingers into his hair, drawing his mouth to mine. Our kiss is slow, unrushed—familiar and new, deepened by everything we’ve survived. His tongue teases mine, his breath coming faster as he tastes me.
I open for him, greedy, surrendering to the heat that spreads through my body.
Simon pulls back just enough to tug my nightshirt up, revealing the soft swell of my breasts, the roundness of my belly. He looks at me as if I’m the only thing in the world, eyes dark and shining with reverence.
His hands follow, reverent and sure, cupping my breasts, brushing his thumbs over my nipples until they stiffen. The sensation is sharp, sweet, delicious.
He lowers his mouth, kissing a path down my throat, across my collarbone, lingering over every new curve the pregnancy has given me. I gasp, arching into him, craving more. His lips find my nipple, warm and soft, and when he sucks gently, a moan spills from my lips—needy, aching, unafraid. My hips shift restlessly, and he moves lower, one hand soothing over my stomach while the other slips between my legs.
His fingers find me slick, wanting.
