Page 15

Kat closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, eyes shut. The marble floor chilled her feet through her socks as she fought to clear her mind of Leo.

Impossible.

She shook her head.

The bathroom had a sleek, freestanding tub and glass-walled shower that easily belonged in a luxury hotel.

She caught her reflection in the oversized mirror. Her hair hung in disheveled tangles, and exhaustion carved shadows beneath her eyes.

But worse than the physical disarray was what stared back—a disgraced MI6 agent, branded a traitor and hunted by her own people.

She turned on the tap and splashed cool water on her face. It helped. She repeated the motion, scrubbing away the grime of London’s back streets.

She worked her wet fingers gently around her eyes, soothing the tension that lingered since her fitful sleep at Gage’s home.

When she turned off the tap, she stared at her wet face in the mirror.

The indistinct murmur of Leo’s voice carried through the door as he spoke on the phone. His Russian had sent an unexpected shiver down her spine—the deep, resonant cadence peeling away another layer of the man she thought she knew.

Not the operative she liaised with for years, but Leonid—a man with roots and history she knew little of.

But I want to know.

She gripped the edge of the pristine sink as she leaned closer to the mirror. Do I look different now? Now that I’m here with him?

Her reflection offered no intel—just the cold gaze of someone trained to survive, now running out of exits.

She’d ignored the heat whenever they spoke, telling herself that men like Leonid Bychkov were walking complications she couldn’t afford. That the way she anticipated his calls was merely efficient preparation.

Turns out she was a master at self-deception. The tightness in her chest when he stood close, the way her skin hummed with awareness? Nothing professional about it. And definitely impossible to ignore.

Not anymore. Not here, in his private space, where no files or protocols stood between them.

She patted her face dry, ran damp fingers through tangled hair, and winced as they caught in a stubborn knot. Swearing under her breath, she gave up and pulled out the burner Brock had given her.

She typed in Gage’s number.

It’s me. Any news on Eldridge?

Three dots pulsed as Gage typed.

Working on it. She’s like a shark in bloody water. The whole department’s in lockdown. I’ve been snooping through her personal details. Lots of money hitting her bank account and going straight back out again. Flights to Geneva. Arken institute. Mean anything to you?

She racked her brains but came up empty.

No.

I’ll keep digging and email you what I have so far. Where are you?

She eyed the marble countertop and backlit mirrors. No need to fuel the cold war between Leo and her brother.

Somewhere safe.

Another message appeared almost instantly.

With the Viking? Because if he gets you arrested, I know people who know how to make bodies disappear. Very reasonable rates.

Despite everything, a smile tugged at her lips.

No one’s disappearing anyone.

But someone might want to disappear YOU.

A link appeared in the message box from Gage.

She tapped it.

Her stomach plummeted. Her own face glared from the screen—jaw rigid, eyes cold. They’d chosen the perfect shot to make her look dangerous.

Her gut twisted.

This was surgical. They weren’t just hunting her—they were framing a villain the public could believe in.

“MANHUNT FOR ARMED AND DANGEROUS MI6 OFFICER.” The article read like a death sentence. Espionage, betrayal, instability. A complete fiction—but just plausible enough to stick.

Shit.

Her phone pinged again. Gage.

They’re out for you.

Yes.

Fuckers have no idea who they are messing with.

She couldn’t help it—she smiled again. Gage. Loyal, infuriating, and always ready to burn the world down for her.

She typed quickly.

I’m safe. Will contact you tomorrow.

She turned the phone off and braced herself against the sink, head hanging between her shoulders.

The pressure built like a held breath behind her ribs.

It wasn’t just about her anymore. Her brother was worried sick. Brock was putting his network at risk to help her. And Leonid? He had dropped everything, flown across the North Sea in the middle of the night on nothing more than half a message.

She raised her head and met her own gaze in the mirror. Here, in his space, the distance between them was more permeable.

Surrounded by his things, knowing he was just outside the door, she felt both more exposed—and more protected—than she had in years.

Her eyes traveled to her hair. The same hair visible in the photo now circulating across the news. The hairstyle that every security camera in London would recognize in an instant.

She opened the bathroom cabinet. Razors. Cologne. First aid supplies arranged with military precision.

Nail scissors.

Small but lethal. She lifted them, testing their weight—absurdly delicate instruments for such a definitive act.

She could still stop. Put them down. Walk out. Ask Leonid for help. Ask anyone.

But she’d survived this long by acting, not asking.

A memory flared—her first undercover assignment. A Paris hotel bathroom just like this one, different hair, different name but the same tight knot of anticipation in her chest.

No way back.

Her breath left her in a whisper as she tested the blade against her thumb.

Sharp enough.

“Fugitive fashion,” she muttered. “Coming to runways this season.”

She gripped a section of hair, measured it out, and raised the scissors.

No going back after this cut—not from the manhunt, not the mission. And not from the man who, without even trying, had already changed everything.