She notices.
Of course she does.
“What?” she asks softly.
I don’t answer.
I grab her.
Not gently.
Not reverent like before.
This kiss is hunger and decision and promise all tangled together, my hands in her hair, my mouth claiming hers like the universe might take her away if I don’t anchor her here right now.
She gasps into me, startled, then melts—then grabs my shirt and kisses me back just as hard, just as reckless, like she’s been waiting for it.
We break apart only because breathing becomes non-negotiable.
I press my forehead to hers, voice rough. “This is what we fight for.”
She doesn’t even blink.
“Us.”
And gods help the Coalition.
Because they have no idea what they just started.
CHAPTER 19
MARA
The uniform itches.
Not physically—at least not much—but in the way borrowed skin always does, wrong in places that have nothing to do with fabric. Coalition officer gray, crisp seams, insignia polished to a mirror shine. Someone else’s authority stitched into the collar, someone else’s rank hanging off my shoulders like a costume I’m daring the universe to believe.
I straighten my spine anyway.
Because posture is memory.
Because the body remembers what the mind pretends it doesn’t.
The corridor leading into the broadcast wing is long and narrow, the lighting flattened to regulation white, the walls scrubbed of anything that might look like personality. Every footstep rings too loud against the floor, a sharp echo that makes my jaw tighten. I don’t rush. I don’t slow.
Command pace.
Not hurry.
Not hesitation.
Just certainty.
The scanner at the first checkpoint chirps softly as I pass.
“Clearance accepted,” the system intones.
In my ear, buried beneath a whisper of static, Tatek’s voice slides in low and steady. “You’re clean. No shadow on your tag.”
