“Who on earth is Volkov?” she screams. “I arrange flowers! I don’t know any Volkovs!”
I study her face, searching for the tell. A twitch of the eyelid. A tightening of the jaw. She seems genuinely confused. Or she’s very, very good.
“Stand,” I command.
She blinks. “What?”
“Stand. Up.”
She hesitates. Then, slowly, she pushes herself out of the chair. She stands before me, barefoot, hugging her arms around her waist. She barely comes up to my chin.
“Take it off,” I say.
The color drains from her face. “No,” she whispers.
“I need to check for wires,” I say. “I need to check for ink. If you’re with the Syndicate, you’re branded. If you’re a fed, you’re wired.”
“I’m not a spy!” She steps back. “And I’m not taking my clothes off!”
“You can do it,” I say, taking a step toward her. “Or I can do it.”
“Don’t touch me!” She holds her hands up. “Please. I’m telling the truth.”
I reach for her. She tries to slap my hand away, butI catch her wrist easily, pinning her arms to her sides with one hand, locking her against my body. I bring the knife up.
She freezes instantly, staring at the black blade.
“I asked you to take it off,” I whisper.
“Please,” she whimpers. “Don’t.”
I slide the tip of the knife under the collar of her sweater. The cashmere is thick. Expensive. I twist my wrist. The knit splits with a harsh tear. The blade slices through the wool effortlessly as I cut straight down. The tension in the knit releases, and the sweater falls open.
She gasps.
I pull the knife back, flipping it so the flat of the blade rests against her stomach.
Underneath, she isn’t wearing a bra.
Her skin glows and looks creamy in the harsh light. I should be looking for a wire. I should be looking for the tape of a microphone. But for a second—one dangerous, unprofessional second—I’m a man looking at a woman I’ve stripped bare. The heat of her body radiates against me.
I force my eyes up to her face. I’m here to verify, not to look.
She squeezes her eyes shut, turning her head away, a flush creeping up her neck.
“Open your eyes,” I command.
She shakes her head.
“Open them.”
She obeys, cracking them open. They’re wet and furious.
I use the knife to push the ruined sweater off her shoulders. It drops to the floor. I scan her torso. No wires. No tape. No tattoos. Just smooth skin. I look for the signs of the trade. Calluses on the hands from gripping a weapon. Bruising on the shoulder from a rifle stock. Gun oil under the fingernails. There’s nothing. Her hands are soft and manicured, made for arranging petals, not pulling triggers. The disparity between her fragility and the violence of my world is a physical weight.
Wait.
I lean in closer. There, above the waistband of her leggings, on her left hip. A small, faint scar. Curved. Old.
