I remember her undercover in Prague, laughing too loud with her arm hooked through mine while she clocked exits and threats in the reflection of a bar mirror.
The night in Rabat when she took a hit meant for me and waved it off with a grin that didn’t quite hide the pain.
The way she always checked me for injuries first, even when she was bleeding too.
The way she learned every room like it owed her something and every enemy like she intended to survive them out of spite alone.
She never needed protection.
She let me give it.
She trusted me enough to know that if she fell, I’d be there. That I wouldn’t hesitate. That I’d catch her—or die trying.
That trust is a weight and a gift and a responsibility I feel all at once. It lands right beside the realization still burning under mysternum. Love. Of course it was always going to be something that felt like both devotion and ruin.
“My daughter’s running the floor,” her dad says, breathless but fierce with something like pride as he clocks her movements too. The shock of the truth is still on him, but so is the recognition. He knows command when he sees it. He built half of it into her without meaning to.
“She always does,” I say, and realize it’s the truest thing I’ve said all night.
Gunfire cracks again, closer this time. Mikhail’s men are pushing harder now, coordinated, brutal. This isn’t a warning shot. This is an attempt to break us by sheer force and confusion. Push civilians toward one choke point, keep operators split, flood the room with too many choices until someone makes the wrong one.
“Jon!” Delilah calls, already moving toward us. “They’re trying to split the perimeter—west stairwell’s compromised.”
“I see it,” I shout back. “King’s heading that way.”
She nods once, already pivoting. No fear. No hesitation. Just decision. Her hair is coming loose around her face. Her breathing is hard but controlled. She doesn’t even look at the blood on her sleeve.
God help me.
Will glances at me, eyes sharp. “You taught her well.”
I don’t correct him. There’s no time—and it’s only partly true anyway. I didn’t make her this. I just didn’t get in the way. I sharpened what was already there and prayed it wouldn’t get her killed.
“Pitch black,” I tell him as we separate to cover different angles.
He grins like a man half his age. “Let’s get dark, Captain.”
The night explodes into motion again—orders shouted, bodies moving with purpose, the untrained cleared out just like shesaid they would be. Delilah moves through it all like she belongs here, like this fight was always hers to finish. She drops from the chair, commandeers a route, redirects two vets, shoves a retired colonel toward cover when he hesitates to leave his wife. No wasted motion. No drama. Just competence sharpened to a blade.
And somewhere between the muzzle flashes and the chaos, as I watch her stand tall in the fire she was never supposed to survive—
I know it.
I don’t just love her.
Ibelievein her.
And no matter how this ends, no matter what the fallout looks like when the smoke clears, I will never regret trusting her to lead—or loving her enough to follow.
King comes out of nowhere like a freight train with a gun.
Literally.
He barrels past me, shoulder-checks a masked attacker into a marble column, and fires without breaking stride. The man drops. King keeps moving, half his suit jacket burned at the hem, blood on his knuckles, eyes alight with the kind of feral joy only violence and loyalty seem to bring out in him.
“Miss me, Cap?” he growls over his shoulder.
I snort even as I return fire. “Like a rash.”
