"You're bleeding," he said, touching my neck where the guard had grabbed me.
"It's not mine."
"Good." His hand lingered on my skin, and I felt the heat of him even through the blood and the cold. "I hate it when you get hurt."
The kiss started rough—adrenaline and relief and the primal need to affirm life in the face of so much death. His hands found my hips and pulled me against him, and I wrapped my legs around his waist and let him press me against the rooftop door.
"Here?" I gasped.
"Here." His mouth was on my throat, teeth grazing the bruises the guard had left. "Need you. Need to feel you."
The tactical gear was a barrier, but we worked around it—zippers pulled down, fabric shoved aside, the cold night air a shock against my exposed skin. He entered me with a force that bordered on violence, and I welcomed it. Welcomed the pain. Welcomed the way it drowned out the questions circling my mind like sharks.
Cross. Someone named Cross.
"Harder," I demanded, and he complied. The door rattled against its frame with each thrust, the sound echoingacross the empty rooftop. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, and I dug my nails into his shoulders and let myself fall into the sensation.
This was what we did. This was who we were. Hunters in love, predators in partnership, two broken things that fit together in ways that shouldn't work but did.
Cross. The name is Cross.
I came with a cry that might have been his name or might have been a warning, my body convulsing around him while the cold wind dried the blood on my face. He followed moments later, his release a shuddering groan against my shoulder.
Afterward, we stood in the dark, breathing hard, our bodies still tangled together. The city sprawled beneath us, indifferent to our violence and our passion and the terrible secrets we were keeping from each other.
"I love you," Nathan said.
"I love you too." The words came automatically, and I wasn't sure if I meant them.
But I knew one thing with absolute certainty: the hunt was changing. The prey I'd been chasing—the traffickers, the buyers, the monsters who traded in human flesh—they were still out there, still deserving of justice. But somewhere in the shadows, another prey was taking shape. One that wore a familiar face and spoke in a familiarvoice and held me at night like I was the most precious thing in the world.
Cross. Someone named Cross.
I pulled away from Nathan and started gathering my gear. "We should go. The police will be here soon."
"Right." He zipped himself up, his expression already shifting back to professional calm. "Same time tomorrow? We can go through Volosin's files, plan the next move."
"The next move," I echoed. "Yes. Tomorrow."
But tomorrow, I'd be looking for more than trafficking intel. Tomorrow, I'd be hunting the truth about Nathan Cross and the network he might be part of. Tomorrow, the real hunt would begin.
Tonight, I'd just go home with the man who'd saved me, and I'd let him hold me, and I'd pretend the cracks in my world weren't spreading wider with every breath I took.
Hunters in love,I told myself as we descended the fire escape.That's what we are. That's all we are.
But the lie tasted like ash, and the photograph hidden in my underwear drawer was still waiting to be explained.
The war was coming. I could feel it in my bones. And when it arrived, I wasn't sure which side I'd be standing on—or whether I'd recognize myself in the wreckage.
7
The Phantom Finger
The memory surfaced at the worst possible moment—during dinner, while Nathan was telling me about his day, his voice a pleasant background hum beneath the clink of silverware and the soft jazz playing from the speakers.
Gabriel's finger, tracing my lower lip.
I blinked, and the apartment vanished. I was back in the conditioning room, kneeling on pink carpet, my hands bound behind my back. Gabriel stood over me, his expression unreadable, his thumb stroking thesensitive skin just inside my mouth—not pushing, not demanding, just resting there like a promise or a threat.
