He doesn’t need or want me.
Whatever happened in bed earlier, that’s over.
And that’s why he should scare me. Not because he’d intentionally hurt me, but because I will never be anything more than another task for him to deal with. I’ll never stand at his side as an equal.
He tosses his coat on the chair, his attention glued to his laptop. The screen spits up satellite images of the estate, the windows, the grounds. He starts pacing, that restless energy filling every inch of the room.
I catch him mid-step and position myself where he can’t miss me. “You don’t get it. It’s not a normal house. You can’t just get in.”
He stops and frowns. “Every wall has a crack. Every guard has a price. Simple math.”
I shake my head, heat building behind my eyes. “The estate is a fortress. It’s designed to keep the messy world out.” I inchcloser. Try to reach him. “You’re the messiest thing there is. You can’t break in with brute force. If you would just listen to me?—”
But he won’t.
He assesses me with measured calculation, like a parent waiting for a tantrum to pass. “You handle the auras. I’ll handle the walls.”
I flinch. Ouch.
Just like that, I’m locked in the silly Vibes and Feelings box while he works the “real” job.
I cross my arms. “Fine.”
I learned my lesson the hard way. If he refuses to listen, then I guess he can too.
He glances over with a wary expression before grabbing his coat and heading out the door. “Stay here.”
The door clicks shut, soft but final.
I flop onto the bed as pain squeezes my lungs. Kirill would rather run every risk himself than admit he needs a partner. Admit that he needsme.
And that truth hurts far more than it should.
Chapter 25
Kirill
The night air bites straight through my jacket, winter-cold despite the official beginning of fall being a few days away.
I’m prone on the ridge above the Hearst estate, my body flat and rifle-still, with night vision binoculars glued to my face. The glass is icy against my brow, and thermals paint the world in smeared greens and reds.
I’ve been here for three hours, trying to find the rhythm of this place. Noting every guard shift, every window, every light. Hunting for a flaw. A crack in the armor.
The mansion sprawls below me in sharp architectural lines, pale limestone supporting a dozen windows. The estate is a sealed vault with no chinks and no leeway.
The surgical grounds offer no hedges or shadows worth using. Nothing but an exposed and monitored open lawn. That’s the same thing we do at Roman’s home, which begs so many questions.
Why does this Hearst guy require so much security?
I sweep the perimeter. A guard patrols the west corner, his shoulders squared and his steps measured. One minute. Two. Three. He vanishes behind manicured green.
Then seven minutes of nothing.
I count it down, my muscles braced and my lungs barely moving. Security always falls into a rhythm, and that predictable weakness and attachment to routine is how you crack them.
Except…sudden motion appears to the east instead of the west.
Two guards use a different door and path. No pattern at all.
