He looks down at the floor.
Then back at me.
“You are asking me to fail at the one thing I have never failed at in my entire life,” he says hoarsely.
“What’s that.”
“Keeping my bonded partner alive.”
The word partner lands differently than mine did.
It makes my chest tighten in a way I do not consent to.
“I am not your partner,” I say automatically.
“No,” he agrees. “You’re not. Not like that.”
Then he exhales.
Long.
Slow.
Controlled.
“I will train you,” he says.
The words hang between us like something fragile and flammable.
“On my terms,” he adds. “With medical clearance. With armor. With evacuation contingencies. With me overriding you if your life is actually about to end.”
“Fine,” I say immediately. “As long as you understand that I get veto power too.”
His lips twitch.
Reluctant.
Terrified.
Almost impressed.
“Deal,” he says.
CHAPTER 8
TUR
Iteach her situational awareness the way I was taught to kill.
Slow.
Precise.
Unforgiving.
We start in the lower access corridors two levels beneath the safehouse, where the concrete sweats faintly with condensation and the air smells like dust, ozone, and old machinery that hasn’t moved in a decade. The lighting is low and uneven, utility strips flickering at irregular intervals along the walls, throwing long, distorted shadows that make every corner look like it’s hiding something that wants you dead.
It’s perfect.
