“Stay on mission,” he says, and I can hear the meaning behind it.
Don’t fall.
Don’t get distracted.
Don’t let her become your weakness.
I swallow once. “Always.”
I end the call and stand there for a moment, phone still in my hand, staring at the quiet kitchen. The safe house hums softly around me. The night outside is calm, which feels like a lie. When I walk back into the living room, Rowan looks up. Her eyes are glossy, but her chin is lifted.
“Are we really staying put?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
She lets out a breath that shakes once, then steadies. “Okay.”
I step closer. “We’re going to get justice for this. But we’re not doing it by handing ourselves to him.”
Rowan nods, jaw tight. “I want to write it all. Every detail. I want to burn him down with ink.”
My mouth tightens. “You will. When it’s safe.”
She looks at me, and there’s a flash of something vulnerable. “I feel stupid.”
“You’re not,” I say, firmly.
“I trusted him.”
“You trusted someone who built a career on appearing trustworthy,” I say. “That doesn’t make you stupid. It makes him dangerous.”
Rowan’s throat moves. “And now what?”
Now the hard part, I think. Now we wait, again, except this time the monster has a face she knows. I reach for her hand, slow, giving her the choice. She takes it, fingers gripping mine like she needs something solid. “We hold,” I say. “We let Cal close the trap. And we stay alive.”
Rowan nods once, eyes burning. “Okay.”
We stand there in the quiet, hands locked, both of us aware that everything just changed. The threat isn’t a shadow anymore. It’s someone she admired. And if he was willing to sell her out to save himself, then he’s going to be willing to do worse when he realizes he’s cornered.
TWELVE
ROWAN
I wake up warm. That’s the first thing I notice, before my brain can catch up to reality. Warmth at my back, a solid arm draped over my waist, a slow steady breath at the nape of my neck.
Sin.
My body settles into it like it’s always belonged there. Which is terrifying. Because I’m not supposed to be the woman who falls in love in the middle of a threat assessment. I’m supposed to be the woman who writes the threat assessment, names names, and publishes it with a bow. But the last few days have done something to me. The safe house. The drills. The way he watches the world like he’s decided it won’t get to touch me. The way he touched me like he was starving and still found the strength to stop when he needed to.
My chest aches in that quiet way that isn’t fear. It’s wanting.
I lie still for a moment, listening to the house breathe around us. Early morning quiet. The faint creak of wood. The soft hush of trees outside. A bird call somewhere distant.
Sin’s hand tightens slightly at my waist, as if even asleep he’s checking I’m still here.
I turn carefully in his arms, slow enough not to jostle him.
His face is softer in sleep. Less sharp. The scar near his cheekbone is still there, but it looks like part of him instead of a warning. His lashes rest against his skin. His mouth is relaxed, and my stupid brain thinks, You could kiss him right now.
