The night stretches on, smooth and almost deceptively warm, and the longer it behaves itself, the tighter everything coils inside me. I move through clusters of old faces and older stories like a ghost, shaking hands, accepting drinks I don’t touch, nodding at laughter that comes a half-second too late. Every conversation bleeds into the next—wars that never really ended, missions that were supposed to be classified but have softened into legend with age, men congratulating each other for surviving long enough to become anecdotes.
I hear my own name more times than I care to count. Captain Cash. Jon. That crazy bastard from the northern route. Half the room remembers versions of me I barely recognize anymore. The other half only know the cleaned-up myths.
Then hers.
“She was sharp even back then,” someone says, grinning like it’s a harmless anecdote. “Ran that op with you—hell of a thing for someone her age—”
I cut it off instantly.
“Don’t,” I say, calm but hard enough that the smile dies where it stands. “That’s not a story you tell.”
The man blinks, chastened, muttering an apology before drifting away. I don’t wait for it to settle. I scan the room again, eyes flicking instinctively toward Delilah’s parents across the floor, toward the way her mother laughs with a hand at her throat, unaware of how close the truth keeps brushing past her. Toward her father’s easy smile when people clap him on the back and hand him another drink, still believing his daughter is simply “back for a visit,” not stitched into the guts of Greenport itself.
They can’t know.
They were never supposed to know.
The longer the night drags on without incident, the more irritated I get—not relieved. Mikhail doesn’t miss opportunities like this. He engineers them. The absence of chaos starts to feel deliberate, like the held breath before a strike. Like he’s here somewhere, watching us all relax by degrees, waiting for the exact right second to turn celebration into carnage.
My jaw tightens. My shoulders itch beneath my jacket. Every laugh sounds too loud. Every toast feels premature.
I spot Delilah near the edge of the room, listening more than talking, gaze sharp even when she smiles. Her mother has clearly stationed her with relatives and old family friends, women who pat her hand and comment on how beautiful she looks, men who ask if Europe “suited her.” She answers just enough. Never too much. Never without watching the room. She looks radiant in a way that has nothing to do with the dress and everything to do with the fact that she’s still standing after everything that tried to break her. The sight of her hits me unexpectedly hard.
I make a decision before I can overthink it.
“Come with me,” I murmur when I reach her, fingers closing lightly around her wrist.
She glances up at me once, reads something in my face, and doesn’t argue. She never does when it matters. She excuses herself with some soft lie to her mother and lets me lead her away before anyone notices too much.
The balcony is quieter, the night air cool against the back of my neck, city lights bleeding into the dark beyond the club’s grounds. Music still leaks through the doors behind us, muffled now, softened by glass and distance. For a second, I just stand there with her, grounding myself in the fact that she’s here, breathing, alive. Not in a cell. Not on a table in the med bay. Here.
“I didn’t forget,” I say, reaching into my pocket.
Her brows knit in confusion until I press the small box into her hand.
Inside is a thin chain, understated, military-grade alloy disguised as something elegant. The pendant is simple—unassuming to anyone who doesn’t know what they’re looking at—but it’s etched with a symbol only the two of us would recognize. A marker from a mission that nearly killed us both. A coordinate hidden in plain sight. A promise that didn’t need words then and needs them even less now.
Her fingers still over it. “Jon…”
“For you,” I say quietly. “Something that means… you’re not alone. Ever.”
Her breath catches. I see it happen—the second the sentiment lands harder than the metal in her palm. She doesn’t speak. She just steps closer and kisses me.
It’s not gentle.
It’s heat and need and all the things we keep pretending aren’t building between us, her hands fisting in my jacket, mine sliding to her waist like muscle memory. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the press of her mouth and the way my name feels on her breath when she exhales against me. Her body fits against mine with terrible ease. Like we’ve been walking around the shape of this for months and both know it.
Too much.
Too close.
Too dangerous.
The sound hits before the thought finishes.
A loud bang from inside—sharp, sudden.
We break instantly.
