“The calibration?”
He goes still. “How did you?—”
“You mentioned it. On the phone.” I keep my voice casual, even as my pulse kicks up. “You said it was routine.”
But you sounded like you didn’t believe it.
“Right. Yeah. Sorry, I forgot, I…” He releases me, runs a hand through his hair. “Julia’s version of routine, anyway. Which means four hours in a chair with electrodes in my skull while they ‘adjust my parameters’ and other tech mumbo jumbo.”
I already know what calibration looks like. Julia showed me the room of horrors, explaining the process with that cold pride of hers. But hearing him describe it, hearing the flatness in his voice, like he’s describing something that happened to someone else, makes my stomach turn. I can’t help but think of the test subjects and how they would have been subjected to something so much worse.
“That sounds awful,” I manage to say.
“Oh, it’s fine. I’m used to it.” The words come out automatic, rehearsed. Then, he stills, and something flashes across his face, his jaw wiggling back and forth. “Actually, no,” he says, like something has dawned on him. “It’s not fine. It’s fucked up, isn’t it? The whole thing is fucked up, and I’m only just starting to realize how much.”
For a moment, my feelings are shoved aside, and only the agent is in control. I file this away like I would normally do, noting the shift in his awareness, the cracks forming in his compliance. This is useful. This is exactly the kind of intelligence London wants.
Then, I stop myself, somewhat disturbed at how easily I was able to compartmentalize my feelings for him right there. Disturbed, and if I’m honest, maybe a little impressed. I still got it.
“Come on,” he says, reaching for my hand. “I want to show you something. Get your mind off all of it—mine too.”
“Where are we going?” I look over the railing, and my heart flips. “We’re flying, aren’t we?”
That ghost of a smile again. “Trust me.”
Flying with him feels different than before.
When we left the gala, it was a complete surprise, and I was ill-prepared, with no idea what to expect.
Now, while I’m still terrified of the whole very unnatural ordeal, I’m aware of other things. The strength in his arms that could snap my spine without effort. The power humming beneath his skin, the same power Global Dynamix wants to weaponize.
The fact that somewhere in a laboratory, they built another version of him. A prototype that proved the concept works. A prototype to obey all orders.
But doesn’t Vanguard obey all orders too?
We continue flying, almost like a sightseeing tour, going up and around Central Park then past the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, One World Trade, Vanguard holding me tight to him. He doesn’t fly as fast as he did before, probably because it’s cold as fuck and my face is numb. Luckily, I wore my combat boots—I can see why my shoes needed to be secure.
Then, we approach the end of Manhattan and spiral around the Statue of Liberty, and despite everything, my breath catches. She rises from the harbor like a promise for so many, green and ancient, her torch lifted against the dark sky. I’ve seen her in films and from planes, but never like this—close enough to touch, her face solemn, wise and somewhat kind.
“Hold on,” Nate says, and then we’re landing on the platform at the base of the torch, a place I know for sure has been completely closed off to tourists for over a century.
As if this exclusive access wasn’t enough, I see that a picnic has been arranged on the narrow space. Basket, blanket, candles flickering in glass holders. Champagne in an ice bucket. Cushions piled against the railing.
It’s so bloody romantic, I feel my knees going weak, preparing to swoon, something I can’t really afford to do right now, but so help me, I’m doing it anyway.
“Danny,” Nate explains, helping me onto the blanket. “He’s better at this stuff than I am. I don’t have a lot of experience in wooing.”
“It’s beautiful.” The words come out steady, even though nothing inside me is. “Nate, this is…”
“Too much?” His forehead wrinkles up, making him look adorable.
“No. It’s perfect.” And it is. That’s kind of the problem. The man is perfect, and worse than that, he’s perfect formein ways not many people would understand.
He settles beside me, pops the champagne, pours two glasses. The first sip is cold and bright, and I drink too fast, hoping the alcohol will blur the edges of my thoughts.
As normal, it doesn’t.
“To Lady Liberty,” he says, raising his glass toward her face.
