Page 40 of North

Where are you going, Selah? Are you running? In trouble?

Lightning split the sky. The mare crow-hopped, nearly unseating him. North grabbed the mane, thighs clamping as she settled.

“Easy.” He leaned forward, speaking against her ear. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t like this.”

The mare’s stride stretched out, eating up ground. Rain became needles against his face. His hands ached from gripping her mane, but he could feel her power building. She wanted to run.

He let her.

They thundered up the road and then around a bend. Through sheets of rain, North caught glimpses of another house. This one with a wraparound porch, a large garage. A barn.

Lights from the windows.

And beyond the house, woods, a trail breaking through.

He rode up the driveway. Wind howled through pine trees, driving the rain sideways. North’s legs trembled with cold and effort. He’d lost feeling in his fingers.

He’d never felt more like an idiot.

Something moved in the shadows—a cat, startled by their approach. It darted back into the garage, but the mare spooked sideways, losing her footing on slick rock.

She reared.

North tumbled back, the mare’s body slippery, and just like that, he landed in the mud.

Pain exploded through his hip, and he fell back, his head slamming against the driveway.

The mare bolted.

And he lay there, the world spinning, Selah’s voice in his ears. That’s why I love you. You see someone in trouble, you help. No questions asked.

Yeah, well, he had questions. Plenty of them.

And it started with…Was this the life he really wanted?

Then the rain and storm took him, and the world went dark.

* * *

Eighteen or so years ago…

Of all the places to be on New Year’s Eve, stuck at a Moscow ball without the woman he loved seemed a terrible way to start the new year. Especially if this night cost him his life.

Alexander Steele stood at the edge of the embassy ballroom, holding a glass of champagne, the drink untouched. Snow fell against leaded windows, and somewhere in the darkness beyond, the spires of St. Basil’s Cathedral pierced a sky heavy with Cold War–era secrets.

The embassy ballroom sparkled with new money and old power. Crystal chandeliers threw light across women draped in designer gowns, diamond necklaces. Young oligarchs in Italian suits clustered around elderly diplomats who still wore Soviet-era medals. Somewhere, a chamber orchestra played Tchaikovsky while servers circulated with beluga caviar and hundred-dollars-a-bottle vodka.

Just a week ago, he’d been in Budapest, watching Timea hang ornaments on her family’s Christmas tree. Her father had read Dickens aloud while snow fell outside, and Timea had curled against Alexander’s shoulder, her hair smelling of cinnamon, her smile holding promise. For one evening, he’d let himself believe in the lie of their tomorrows. A happy ending for a spy.

Now, watching York Newgate dance with his wife, Claire, Alexander’s chest ached. Claire’s laugh floated across the ballroom, pure and sweet, so like Timea’s. Both women carried that same light, that innocence that made this job harder every day.

“Wisconsin farm boy cleaned up nice.” Tom Crowley materialized beside him, his voice carrying a hint of lingering disapproval. “And I have to admit, he’s good at his job.”

“Best deputy security chief the embassy’s had, according to your man, David Curtiss.” Alexander kept his tone neutral, watching York guide Claire through the crowd. The man who’d married Crowley’s daughter without permission had earned his position the hard way—competence that couldn’t be denied.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Crowley sipped his drink. “But he’s loyal. To Claire, if nothing else.” His eyes tracked to the other side of the room. “Speaking of loyalty, your boy Damien’s been making some interesting choices lately.”

Damien Gustov held court near the caviar table, his Brioni suit worth more than a month’s pay. A circle of wannabe oligarchs surrounded him, gold watches flashing as they gestured.