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"Natalie. Look at me."

It takes a moment, but finally her eyes focus on me. Behind the lingering fear, I see iron strength. My brave, beautiful Natalie.

"We're okay. We'll figure this out, and we'll forge our own path together. I promise. Do you promise me back?"

Her throat bobs as she swallows, then whispers, "Yes."

I lift her hands and press my lips to her knuckles. I vow silently, here and now, to protect her from Wright’s twisted fixation. She will never suffer such abuse from him again. Not if I have any say in the matter.

And since what I whispered into his ear was perfectly true, Idohave a say in the matter.

Natalie gifts me with a tremulous smile, and something eases in my chest. She sets down her coffee and holds out her arms. I go willingly into them, tension leaching from her frame as I hold her close.

I will keep Natalie safe. No matter the cost.

CHAPTER23

NATALIE

As I approach Stephen Bell's office later that day, my heart pounds in a metronome of trepidation. My gut twists with the cocktail of nerves and resolve churning inside me.

But I'm not going to back down. Not this time. If Alessa de Luca can get Sam Wright cowering on the filthy sidewalk with one twist of his wrist, I can sure as hell make a formal complaint against him—even if it means coming clean about my own missteps.

But I'm tired of hiding behind masks and cover stories. I want the slate wiped clean so Alessa and I can have a real shot at this.

Atus.

I round the last corner, pausing to smooth non-existent wrinkles from my shirt, buying time to steel my nerves. I booked an hour with Bell, because I also want answers about the questionable evidence used against Alessa. But confronting a superior is no small matter. Still, my quest for justice overrides apprehension. I straighten my shoulders and rap firmly on the door.

"Come in."

The brusque invitation makes me flinch, but I maintain my poise. "Agent Bell?" I say as I open his door. "I wanted a word—oh."

Bell sits rigid behind his desk, thunderclouds gathering on his brow. But what surprises me is the second presence with him. Dr. Kris Hays rises from a chair in the corner, face carefully composed into a polite mask.

"I want a word with you, too," Bell growls. "Sit."

"I didn't mean to interrupt—"

"Sit," he roars, like I'm a recalcitrant dog who won't obey. I pause a moment, just so he knows I'm here of my own free will, and then I perch warily on the room’s remaining chair.

Hays’ studiously neutral expression seems to shift, twitching into a hint of a smug smile. The change sends ice trickling down my spine.

What is happening here?

Hays settles back in her seat, folding her hands with elaborate composure. Her eyes bore into me, glinting behind pristine glasses. My pulse kicks into overdrive. This is a staged scene, and it reeks of a tribunal, not a meeting between colleagues.

Before I can say anything, Bell slides a file across the desk. It spins to a stop in front of me, revealing an official seal of the FBI. The sight fills me with dread.

"Open it," Bell orders flatly. Hands numb, I comply. Inside are photos of Alessa and me—grainy long-range surveillance shots. One captures us walking down a Manhattan street, passing an espresso stand. Another shows us seated in a dimly lit diner, heads bent in serious conversation—that was the night I went to Anna's Kitchen.

Wait. What…

My stomach drops even as confusion wars with denial. We look innocuous, even mundane in these frozen moments.

But they're damning all the same.

"Would you care to explain these interactions, Miller?"