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The wheels turn.

The pieces come together.

Emotion steps aside so cold, hard logic can take center stage.

She accepted a difficult mission. She needs to win my trust enough to find out what I know, steal or destroy the files, then kill me.

It’s near impossible.

Even someone as self-confident as Jamie knows that. Hell, some kid on their first day of training knows that.

Betray someone once and they’re far less likely to trust you again.

I let that work its way into my logic. I consider why Alex assigned me a similar mission.

Then, I see it.

My vision of the truth.

A plan comes together in my mind. It’s simple, but it’s risky. I’m betting on how well I understand her.

And that’s the thing.

I’m pretty sure I do.

Because my stomach isn’t dropping. My shoulder’s aren’t tensing. I’m not thinking about sneaking a benzo from her purse to numb the pain.

Now, I’m not upset my ex-girlfriend is here to kill me.

I’m not angry or terrified or betrayed.

I’m thrilled.

My entire body is buzzing.

I’ve never felt this fucking alive.

This is the real Jamie. The woman who will do anything to win. Who will take on any challenge that excites her.

I don’t want her less because she’s here to kill me.

I want her more.

A few hours later, Jamie wakes.

She steps into the doorframe in an oversized white t-shirt and black boxer briefs and sends a smile in my direction.

In the warm glow of afternoon, she’s radiant.

She stands tall and proud when I smile back.

Then I pat the spot on the couch next to me and she softens. Her shoulders fall. Her fingers curl into her palms.

She’s tired. From the day. From the medication. From the weight of asking for my trust when she knows she’s here to kill me.

I could take advantage of her weakened state, but I don’t want to hurt her.

Because I get it now: