The engines roar, the rain thickens, the night closing in around us as we drop two streets down from a crumbling warehouse—Syndicate territory. The kind of place where ghosts are made.
Wraith slows first, easing his beast of a machine into the shadow of an abandoned building. Saint follows, smooth and precise. I slide off the back of Wraith’s bike, bootsskidding slightly on wet pavement, my hand catching his arm automatically.
His muscles flex under my grip.
The rain greets us fully now, misting and cold, soaking into my hair and jacket. The warehouse looms ahead—a hollow carcass of steel and broken light. Through a shattered pane, I catch movement. Men. Tables. The gleam of guns. Bottles. Laughter that doesn’t reach the eyes.
And faces.
Too many faces.
Wraith lifts two fingers. Silent. Commanding.
We move.
He’s all shadow and weight, every step deliberate. Saint stays close to me, his presence a quiet wall at my side as we slip behind the shell of a rusted van. I crouch, heart hammering, peering through flaking metal.
That’s when I see him. At the far end of the warehouse, flanked by Syndicate lieutenants and Russian muscle, stands a man I never thought I’d see again. Gray hair. Crooked nose. The faint scar under his right eye.
Damien. My handler, my tormentor… The word hits like ice in my chest. MI6. My old division. The man who fed me lies about my brother’s mission. The one who vanished the night everything collapsed.
I go still. My breath locks.
Saint notices instantly. Of course he does. “What is it?” he whispers.
“Damien,” I breathe. “My handler.”
Wraith turns, visor catching the dim light. “You’re sure?”
“I’d know that face anywhere. I can’t believe it… Howcouldhe?” My voice is steady even as my body shakes. “He’sthe reason my brother’s dead.”
For a moment, no one speaks. Rain on rust. Voices inside. The low hum of engines cooling behind us.
Saint’s gaze darkens. “So this isn’t leverage,” he murmurs. “It’s betrayal.”
I nod, fury blazing in my chest like an ember begging to be unleashed. “And now we know who orchestrated it.”
Wraith mutters under his breath, binoculars lifting. “The Syndicate and the Russians. Together. Christ.”
“We need to go,” I say.
“Not yet,” Saint replies.
He moves before I can stop him. One hand wraps around my arm, pulling me deeper into shadow, away from Wraith’s line of sight.
“Saint—”
He doesn’t answer. His other hand comes to my jaw, thumb warm against rain-chilled skin, and suddenly his mouth is on mine. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t soft. It’s control and challenge and something dangerously close to hunger. His lips taste like smoke and sin, and for a heartbeat, the city disappears.
I should shove him away. I should stop him.
I don’t.
Because the fear stops. The noise stops. Everything stops except heat and rain and the press of him.
When he pulls back, his voice is low enough to vanish into the night. “Now you’re dangerous.”
“Was that a test?” I whisper.
