And there she is.
Zatanna.
She’s wide-eyed and breathless, clutching a tablet to her chest like a shield. She looks between me and my men, cheeks flooding pink the moment she realizes what she’s walked into.
“Oh—god—sorry,” she blurts, stepping back so fast she nearly trips. “I didn’t know anyone was—I’ll just—” She gestures vaguely toward the hallway, clearly intent on fleeing, and my team stares at her like she’s a lost kitten that somehow wandered into a den of wolves.
I feel something low in my stomach tighten. “Stop,” I say.
She freezes.
My men look at me like,surely, he didn’t just say that.
I turn to them. “Leave us.”
Three hardened Bratva enforcers, men who’ve followed me into shootouts and out of burning buildings, stare at me in complete disbelief.
Sergei actually blinks. “Leave… the meeting?”
“Yes.”
“But we haven’t?—”
“Now,” I say, my voice dipping into the tone that never allows argument.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then chairs push back. Paper folders snap shut. They file out past her, each giving her a curious glance—some confused, some wary, one or two openly astonished.
She steps aside to let them through, baffled, clutching that tablet even tighter. When the door finally shuts behind the last man, the room sinks into heavy quiet.
She stands there like she’s reconsidering her entire life choices.
Her voice is small. “I… didn’t mean to interrupt anything important.”
“You did.”
Her eyes widen.
“But you’re already here,” I add, gesturing toward her. “So stay.”
She swallows, nervous but trying to pretend she isn’t. “I—um—okay.”
She takes a tiny step inside. Then another. The door clicks softly as I lock it behind her. Her breath catches. She looks like she wants to sink into the floor.
I take a slow step toward her.
“It’s alright,” I say. “You’re not interrupting anything.”
She swallows, eyes flicking to the table covered with tactical documents and ballistic photos. “Pretty sure I was interruptingsomething.”
A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth. “I didn’t mind.”
Her blush deepens, spreading across her cheeks, down her neck. I shouldn’t notice that. I shouldn’t notice any of it. Last night someone tried to kill me, this morning I’m discussing ammunition calibers, and yet?—
Here she is, looking at me like she’s not sure whether to apologize or run.
And every part of me feels like the oxygen in the room has shifted. “What did you need?” I ask, softer than I intend.
