Page 29

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. This fucker actually gave himself a supervillain name. As if we're characters in some twisted cat-and-mouse thriller instead of real people playing an increasingly dangerous game.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, outwardly smoothing my expression into bored disinterest, though adrenaline still drums a steady rhythm beneath my skin. The barista calls my name, voice cheerful, and I collect the tray of coffee cups with forced calm, heading back toward the DEA bullpen.

But as I push through the door, stepping into the cool air outside, the sense of being watched follows closely, as tangible as a lover’s breath against my neck. Let them watch, let them think they’ve got the upper hand. Because sooner or later, these shadowy assholes will make a mistake.

And when they do, I’ll be ready—waiting in the dark, exactly where I belong.

Pausing on the sidewalk, I pull out my phone again, typing one handed and with deliberate venom:

Cute attempt at intimidation. But you’re going to have to try a lot harder than creepy messages and cheap theatrics. Reyes will rot in a federal prison, and there's nothing you can do to stop me.

I send it off with a savage grin and continue walking, picturing their face—whoever they are—tightening with irritation at my defiance. But their reply is immediate, and the words hit me harder than I expect:

UNKNOWN

Oh, darling, you misunderstand us. No, we don’t want Reyes locked away safely in some federal cage. We want him in the fucking ground.

I pause mid-step, rereading the message carefully as confusion and intrigue wind together in a tight, uncomfortable knot in my chest. They’re claiming they’re not protecting Reyes—they want him dead. If that's true, the entire game might have just shifted, and I’m suddenly not sure whether that thought thrills or unsettles me more.

Who the hell am I really dealing with here?

Chapter 13

Ruin

Iseeeverything.Everythingshe does and every move she makes.

I always have.

Long before she joined the DEA. Before she set her sights on Reyes like it was a crusade she was born for. I saw her.

The girl who never flinched. Who didn’t try to leash the darkness inside her, but danced with it like it was her favorite fucking song. Everyone else tried to dull her edges, soften her glare. But not me. I was obsessed with every blade she kept sharpened and ready. I didn’t want her tame—I wanted her wild. Untouched by delusion. Unbothered by approval.

Seanna doesn’t apologize for who she is. She never did.

And neither do I.

She walks through life like a goddamn storm, all fury and fire wrapped in a body made to destroy men. Not me, though. I'm no fool to be shattered by her—I want to stand in the onslaught of her storm, become a part of her chaos, and watch her writhe beneath me. Me—and the only other person in the world who could ever hope to truly handle her. My best friend. My shadow. My match in obsession. The day he saw her, really saw her, I knew she wasn’t just mine.

She was ours.

She still doesn’t know it. Not yet. But she will.

Right now, she’s sliding into her car, her face set with the kind of quiet, lethal focus that would make weaker men piss themselves. She doesn’t notice the camera tucked near the dashboard. She never will.

Soon enough I’m switching screens. From her car to the hallway of the building her parents turned into their headquarters a long time ago. I’ve been in the system for years. Their precious “Organization” is secure from the rest of the world—but not me. Their tech? Laughable. Max is decent, sure, but compared to me?

He’s a fucking dinosaur.

I watch her stride through the corridors like she owns the place—and she does. Her boots echo like a metronome of violence, hips swaying with purpose, jaw tight. People part around her like she’s royalty, and in a way, she is. The queen of carnage. The patron saint of vengeance.

Our Queen.

She heads straight to Max’s office. I unmute the feed, listening as she updates him on Cruz. and the meeting tomorrow. The possibility she’ll go dark. I already knew all this. But hearing her say it—hearing that tight rasp in her voice, like she’s fighting exhaustion with sheer will—makes my blood stir.

She doesn’t mention me. Not the notes. Not the flowers. Not the polaroids I left across her bed like a shrine.

Good girl.