Page 68

The clink of cutlery. The muted hum of conversation. Wine glasses catching candlelight like they’re holding something sacred. I force a smile. One of those tight, brittle ones that doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Just tired,” I lie. “Didn’t sleep much.”
Shelby nods, but I can feel the way her gaze lingers. The way her brows pinch just slightly. She doesn’t believe me. No one at this table does. They won’t say it out loud, but the stiffness in my shoulders, the way I keep twisting the napkin in my lap like I’m wringing out my own nerves? It doesn’t go unnoticed.
I take a long sip of wine—too much, too fast. It scorches down my throat and pools in my stomach like poison. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out the sound of laughter, of harmless chatter, of life happening all around me.
But I’m not here. Because Saxon North isn’t just the Fed who plays nice with the Gatti brothers when it suits him. He’s not just the man with the badge and the loaded stare and the impossible choices.
He’s the ghost I carry under my skin. The nightmare I keep pretending was a dream. The one I can’t wake up from.
He’s the man who undid me with a whisper, who shattered every boundary I’ve ever tried to build. And now? He’s everywhere. Even in this room, at this table, in this moment—he’s here. Even when he’s not. And that’s the worst part.
I tilt the wine glass again, desperate for numbness. It burns less this time. Or maybe I’m already too far gone to feel it.
You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.
I chant it like a prayer, a spell, a desperate plea. I smile when someone cracks a joke. I nod when Shelby leans in to gossip. I pretend I’m fine so convincingly that I almost believe myself.
But underneath the calm exterior is a warzone. Because I know what this is. I know what’s coming. Saxon isn’t just a memory—I can feel him circling again, closing in. Whether it’s fate or punishment or some cruel game the universe plays when it’s bored, I don’t know.
All I do know is this: I didn’t survive him the first time. And I sure as hell don’t know if I’ll survive him a second time.
29
SAXON
I’m pressed against the back wall, arms crossed so tight my biceps burn, jaw clenched hard enough that my molars grind like stone. I haven’t slept in thirty hours. Maybe more. The blood crusted into the creases of my knuckles isn’t even from my last op—that one blurred into the next, and the next. The kind of blood that doesn’t wash off, not even with boiling water.
But all of that? The exhaustion, the pain, the bone-deep violence stitched into my every step? It’s nothing compared to the fire clawing through my gut right now.
Because someone just said her name.
“Maxine Andrade might be the perfect candidate to help with our investigation.”
At first, I think I misheard. I push off the wall slowly, like a man wading through molasses. The weight in my chest turns to lead.
“What did you just say?”
Silence. Everyone freezes like they can smell the storm rising in my bones. No one repeats it.Cowards.
SSA Moffatt clears his throat, pretending to be composed,but he’s already shifting his papers like they might shield him from the blast.
“She lived with Kadri for almost a year. She’s uniquely positioned—that might be our in. If she’s willing to cooperate, we might get the kind of access we’ve never had before. The intel?—”
I bark out a laugh. A short, ugly thing, sharp enough to cut glass. “She didn’tlivewith Kadri,” I remind the team. “She was avictim.I don’t know why you all have such a hard time remembering that.”
“She’s the closest link we have to the organisation,” he argues. “She’s seen things, members she could identify to give us a solid lead…”
My explosion isn’t loud. It’snuclear. It doesn’t need volume to devastate—just presence.
It radiates through the bones of everyone in the room, a slow, suffocating pressure that warps the air and curdles the silence. I stand there, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache, fists flexing like they’re moments away from doing real, permanent damage. My vision tunnels. Red. Nothing but red. Because I could end him. Right here. Right now. I could tear through his throat like paper, feel his pulse stutter beneath my hands, watch the arrogance bleed out of his eyes. And the only thing—the only fucking thing—stopping me is the last, brittle shard of respect I still have for the Bureau. For what itusedto mean to me. For the badge I wore like a second skin.
“Oh, you want to send a trafficking survivor back into the lion’s den? Use her like bait so you can pat yourselves on the back for catching a bigger fish? That’s what we’re doing now? Playing God with her life?”
“She’s not just a survivor, Saxon,” Agent Pettigrew says, tone soft like she’s explaining something to a child. “She’s strong. She’s intelligent. And she has a personal?—”
“She’s. Not. Bait!”