"It is our trophy," I say. "We earned it through superior teamwork and tactical execution."
"It cost three dollars at a craft store."
"Irrelevant."
She shakes her head, but she's smiling, soft and wondering, and I want to carry her back to the Lover's Loft and show her exactly how we should celebrate this victory.
We retreat to the gazebo at the property, far from the crowd dispersing toward lunch. It overlooks the vineyard, rows of grapevines stretching toward distant hills, the air sweet with late-summer fruit and warm earth.
Colletta sits on the bench, legs stretched out in front of her, the ridiculous trophy balanced on her knees. I stand watch at the entrance, scanning the perimeter out of habit.
"You can sit down, you know," she says quietly, her voice carrying a note of gentle exasperation. "I'm pretty sure there are no snipers hiding in the vineyard. No enemy combatants waiting to ambush us."
I sweep my gaze across the rows of grapevines one more time, checking sightlines and potential concealment positions. "You cannot be certain of that. Complacency leads to mission failure."
"Kruk." She pats the bench beside her, the spray-painted trophy wobbling precariously on her knees. "Sit. Please. That's an order from your client."
I sit, the bench creaking under my weight. She shifts closer, her thigh pressing against mine, and I feel the heat of her through two layers of fabric.
"Thank you," she says after a moment. "For not killing Derek."
"You are welcome. It was difficult."
She laughs, soft and low. Then her fingers trace along my jaw, tentative, her touch light enough that I could pull away if I wanted.
I do not want to pull away. Every instinct trained into me says to maintain distance, to avoid entanglement, to keepmission-critical focus. But her touch is gentle, exploratory, and it grounds me in this moment in a way nothing else has in years.
"Can I ask you something?" Her voice has gone quiet, careful, the way people speak when they're afraid of breaking something fragile.
I meet her gaze, studying the uncertainty in her eyes, the way she's biting the corner of her lower lip. "Yes," I tell her, keeping my voice level and steady despite the sudden tension coiling. "You may ask."
"Your scars." Her fingertip finds the raised line that cuts across my cheekbone, the one that disappears into my hairline. "How did you get them?"
I go still.
No one asks about the scars. People see them, yes. They stare, they flinch, they make assumptions. But they do notask.
"Which one?" My voice comes out flat, guarded.
"Any of them. All of them." She tilts her head, her eyes searching my face. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I'm just... curious. About you."
I should deflect. Maintain operational security. My exile details are irrelevant to mission parameters.
But her hand is still on my face, soft and warm, and she is looking at me like I am more than a weapon, more than a hired intimidation asset.
"This one," I say slowly, covering her hand with mine, pressing her palm flat against the scar, "I got in the fighting pits. Before I left."
"Left?" she echoes, her brow furrowing slightly, confusion flickering across her features. "You mean... you weren't always in the human territories?"
"No." The word comes out rough, scraping against the back of my throat like gravel. I hadn't meant to say even this much,hadn't planned on opening this particular wound tonight. "I was exiled. Banished from the clans for?—"
A scream cuts through the air, slicing through the moment like a blade. High, sharp, panicked. The sound of it sets every instinct I have howling to life.
I am on my feet instantly, every muscle coiled, threat assessment flooding my system. Colletta jumps up beside me, the trophy clattering to the gazebo floor.
The scream comes again, and this time I recognize the voice.
Monica.
