“Name them.”
“Earpiece with live connection. Armed security within ten feet at all times. Extraction protocol at the first sign of compromise.” His eyes meet mine, intense and unwavering. “And if I say leave, you leave. No heroics, no improvisation, no staying to gather one more piece of intelligence.”
“Sure.”
He nods, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides. Letting me walk into potential danger goes against every instinct he has, but he’s doing it anyway because he trusts my judgment.
The realization makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
A soft knock interrupts us. “Come in,” Nikola calls.
Suzanne enters carrying coffee and what looks suspiciously like homemade cookies. She’s been visiting more frequently lately, partly to check on my well-being but mostly because she’s become genuinely fond of Nikola in ways that surprise all of us.
“How’s the intelligence gathering going?” she asks, settling into the chair across from Nikola’s desk with the casual comfort of family.
“Better than expected,” I tell her. “Turns out people really do treat me like I’m invisible when they think I’m emotionally fragile.”
“Are you emotionally fragile?”
The question is gentle but pointed, the kind Suzanne specializes in—direct enough to require honesty, caring enough to make lying feel impossible.
I consider it seriously. A month ago, I was falling apart. Scanning every room for threats, jumping at unexpected sounds, feeling like a passenger in my own life while other people made decisions about my safety and future.
Now I’m making strategic decisions about operations that could determine whether women live or die. I’m gathering intelligence that could dismantle networks spanning multiple countries. I’m choosing to walk into danger because the information I can gather is worth the risk.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think I am anymore.”
Suzanne nods, but her eyes move between Nikola and me with the particular attention she pays when she’s noticing something important. “You two are different than you were even last week.”
“Different how?” Nikola asks.
“Less like people playing roles and more like people who’ve found their rhythm.” She sips her coffee thoughtfully. “When Elara talks about operations, you listen instead of making decisions for her. When you plan security, she contributes instead of fighting you. You move around each other like you’ve been doing this for years.”
I realize she’s right. Somewhere between the surveillance files and the gallery opening, between his confession aboutkilling and my decision to gather intelligence, we’ve stopped performing our marriage and started living it.
“Also,” Suzanne continues, “you keep touching each other without realizing it.”
I look down and see that my hand is resting on Nikola’s arm, fingers curled around his wrist like I’m anchoring myself to his presence. When did that become automatic? When did physical contact stop being negotiated and start being instinctive?
“Is that bad?” I ask.
“It’s real,” she says simply. “Whatever this started as, it’s become something real.”
After she leaves, Nikola and I return to the intelligence materials, but her observation echoes in the space between us. Something has changed, and I’m not sure either of us knows how to name it.
Chapter Sixteen - Nikola
The office feels like a command bunker at three in the morning—screens casting pale blue light across intelligence reports, the city spread below like a circuit board, silence thick enough to cut with a blade. My grazed arm protests every time I reach for coffee, but the pain keeps me sharp. Focused.
Something is coming. I can feel it in the stillness, in the way the monitors flicker without showing anything concrete, in the particular quality of quiet that precedes violence.
When the phone rings, I know exactly who it is before I answer.
“Nikola.” Marcus Hale’s voice slides through the speaker like oil over glass, smooth and deliberately intimate. “I was wondering when we’d have a proper conversation.”
I don’t respond immediately. Let him fill the silence, let him reveal intentions through whatever script he’s prepared for this moment.
“Congratulations on the marriage, by the way. Quite the strategic alliance. Though I have to admire the theatricality: the white dress, the family gathering, the touching commitment to making it look authentic.” He laughs, low and pleased with himself. “You almost had me convinced it was real.”
