I hold his gaze.
“They’re not trying to capture me.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
“They’re trying to kill me.”
His jaw tightens.
Good.
He should understand the level of problem this is.
“What are you carrying, Mila?” he asks quietly.
I don’t answer.
Instead—
“You should walk away,” I say. “Right now. This has nothing to do with you.”
He lets out a short laugh. No humor in it.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s not how this works.”
Of course it isn’t.
Because nothing with him is ever simple.
I meet his eyes, steady.
“You don’t understand what you just stepped into.”
He leans closer.
Too close.
Always too close.
My pulse stutters.
Traitor.
“Then start explaining,” he says.
And there it is.
That pull.
That same dangerous, reckless gravity from Prague.
The one that makes smart decisions feel optional.
I look away first.
Because if I don’t—
I might remember exactly how his hands felt on me.
