"Eventually. Yes."
"That's a war, Jagger. Not a skirmish… a full-scale war against an organization that's been operating in shadows for centuries."
"It’s more of a siege."
"And you're ready for that?"
I look at Jonah, who's watching me with those dark, knowing eyes. At Elliot, curled against my brother like he belongs there.At Jace, who gave up everything for the chance to feel something real.
"I'm ready to stop being their weapon," I say. "Whatever comes with as far as consequences."
Jace nods slowly. "Then we're with you. All the way."
"Jinx?"
"He's been waiting for this. You know how he gets when he's bored." Jace's mouth curves. "I'll contact him. Bring him up to speed. When you're ready to move, we move together. He’s been hounding me non-stop to give him a reason to come back here. He likes to ski, apparently."
"For now, rest," Elliot says. "Both of you look like you haven't slept in days. There's a guest room down the hall. Clean sheets. No one will bother you."
"We have work to do—"
"Tomorrow." Elliot's voice is firm. "You're no good to anyone running on fumes. Rest tonight. Plan tomorrow."
I want to argue. There's so much to do, so little time, the Ministry closing in with every passing hour.
But Jonah's hand finds mine, and his thumb traces circles on my palm, and suddenly the exhaustion I've been holding at bay crashes over me like a wave.
"Okay," I say. "Tomorrow."
We follow Elliot down the hall to a small room with a view of the mountains. The bed is soft, the sheets clean, and when Jonah curls against me in the darkness, his breath evening out into sleep, I let myself relax for the first time in weeks.
Chapter Twelve: Jonah
Iwakeupwarm.
That's still a novelty. Three years of detention center beds, thin blankets, cold concrete walls. Fluorescent lights that never fully turned off, guards who checked on you every hour, the constant hum of machinery designed to keep you compliant. Now I'm wrapped in a down comforter,in the Alps,with Jagger Harrison pressed against my back like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
His arm is heavy across my waist. His breath is slow and even against my neck. Outside the window, the Alps are turning pink with dawn, snow-capped peaks catching the first light. The mountains look like something from a postcard, unreal in their beauty.
I don't move. Don't want to break whatever spell is keeping him asleep.
Jagger sleeps like a colicky baby. He tosses, mutters, sometimes jerks awake with his hand reaching for a weapon that isn't there. The Foundry trained rest out of him, replaced it with something that looks like sleep but never quite is. I'vewatched him sit up, staring at the wall, his eyes far away, lips tight, relieving whatever is going on in his head.
But right now, he's still. Peaceful. His face is slack against my shoulder, all the hard lines softened by unconsciousness. His mouth is slightly open, and there's a small furrow between his brows that I want to smooth away with my thumb.
He looks almost angelic.
Almost.
I should hate him. Sometimes I think about hating him, try to summon the rage that should be there. But then he does something like this. Falls asleep wrapped around me like I'm the only safe thing in his world. And the hate just won't come.
I could watch him like this for hours.
I don't get the chance. His breathing changes, and I feel him surface into wakefulness, his arm tightening around me.
"Morning," I say.
"Mm." Not a word. A sound. He presses his face into my neck and breathes deep, like he's memorizing my scent. His stubble scrapes against my skin, rough and real.
