I take the long way back to my hotel, cutting through side streets and doubling back twice to check for tails. Old habits die hard and all that. But they’re the kind that keep you alive in this business, even when part of you wonders if staying alive is worth the cost. At any rate, I have to be extra vigilant now, since I have a so-called stalker who can make himself go invisible.
My mobile buzzes against my hip. The burner, not the journalist one.
I check the screen and my stomach drops.
Cal.
He’s never called me while I’ve been on a mission, which means he probably doesn’t have good news. For a moment, I consider not answering, letting it go to voicemail so I can deal with it later.
But Cal would just call back. He’s persistent that way. We all are.
I duck into the doorway of a closed bodega and answer.
“Cal.”
“Mia.” His voice is warm, familiar, threaded with concern he’s trying to hide. Honestly, it feels good to hear. “How are you?”
“Fine. Busy. You know how it is.”
“Do I?” A pause. “Because from what I’m hearing, things are getting complicated over there.”
I close my eyes. Of course, Bayo reported back. Of course, Kat did too. That’s protocol—keeping London in the loop, making sure the home team knows what’s happening in the field. I just didn’t expect it to be Cal on the other end of that loop. I haveto assume they haven’t told Mank everything, or he’d be the one giving me a call.
Or possibly extracting me.
“Things are under control,” I say carefully.
“Are they?”
“Cal—”
“You sound different, somehow.” His voice softens, losing some of its professional tone. “Maybe America is rubbing off on you. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really. Just tired. Jet lag and all that.”
“You’ve been there for weeks. Jet lag doesn’t last that long.”
“Maybe I’m just not sleeping well. Can’t find anyCoronation Streetat night to put me to sleep.”
“Mia.” He says my name like it hurts him. “Talk to me. Please.”
I press my back against the cold metal of the security gate, the ridges digging into my spine through my jacket. I could tell him the truth. Not all of it, but the part that matters.I found someone I can touch, Cal. Someone I can kiss without killing.
My throat tightens. I wait for the relief to come, the joy, the celebration of finally being free from the curse I’ve carried since I was thirteen years old. All this time watching other people hold hands, kiss hello, fall asleep tangled together, while I was busy being the monster in the fairy tale, the one whose touch means death.
And now, I’m not.
But the relief doesn’t come. What comes instead is something harder to name. It’s a strange, sideways grief—not for what I lost, but for what I survived. For the version of myself who learned to live without touch, who built walls so thick, they became load-bearing. Who am I if I’m not the girl who kills with a kiss? What’s left when you take away the thing that made youuntouchable? What if I’m still not lovable when all is said and done?
And underneath that, darker still, is guilt. Because Cal is on the other end of this line, three thousand miles away, and two years ago, he stood in front of me with his heart in his hands. He’d said he didn’t care about the poison, that he’d learn to love me without kissing, without any of the things normal couples do. That I was worth it.
I’d told him no, told him I couldn’t do that to him, couldn’t make him live half a life just to be with me.
And now, there’s Vanguard. Who I can kiss. Who I can touch. Who makes me feel things I told myself I’d never feel.
And I can’t tell Cal any of it. It would destroy him.
Unless he already knows.
