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“Nothing important.” His expression was unreadable as he held the door open, but she caught the slight tension at the corners of his mouth.

Her brother had undoubtedly delivered some variation of the ‘hurt her and I’ll kill you’ speech.

The thought brought a complicated mix of irritation and warmth—Gage’s overprotectiveness was infuriating, yet after a day of betrayals, knowing he had her back wasn’t unwelcome.

Leo closed the door on her as she settled on the cream upholstery. The front dash looked like a NASA space station and the car smelled of expensive leather.

He swung into the driver’s seat.

“This is a rental?” She clipped her seatbelt.

Leo pressed the button, and the engine woke with a throaty growl. “Yup.”

“Where do you get rentals like this?”

He glanced in her direction. “You need to know where to shop.”

He pulled away and navigated the Jaguar through narrow London streets. Summer rain pattered against the windshield, the wipers keeping a steady rhythm.

She ran her fingers over the butter-soft leather. “This car probably costs more than my yearly salary.”

“It’s just transportation.” Leo’s hand settled on her knee—casual, claiming.

Kat’s breath caught. Heat radiated through the fabric, his palm solid and real. Fine scars crisscrossed his knuckles. Her skin prickled beneath his touch, jolting awareness up her thigh to her core.

“Sorry.” He snatched his hand back.

She dug her nails into her palms, fighting for control, but her body hummed with a residual current.

She cleared her throat. “I need an engineering degree just to find the radio.”

“The radio is the least of our concerns right now,” Leo said, but he reached over and pressed a button and instantly the car was booming with the unmistakable opening guitar riff of AC/DC.

Kat’s eyebrows shot up. “I was expecting Mozart or something equally... restrained.”

Leo rolled his hands on the steering wheel.

“ACDC. Really?” Despite everything, she smiled.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It’s a rental.”

“Yeah, but—” The lead singer was losing it over shaking walls. She stifled a laugh with her hand.

Leo glanced over. His stony expression softened into a shy boyish smile, then morphed into something darker that made her belly tighten and heat arrow between her legs. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Breathe Kat. Breathe. She tore her gaze off him and forced herself to look out the window.

Rain raced across the glass as the Jaguar slowed, entering a quiet residential street lined with modest terrace houses.

She took a slow, deep breath. She was going to fix things. Clear her name. Put Korolov behind bars if necessary.

“We’re here,” Leo craned over his shoulder as he parked between a dented delivery van and an aging Mini Cooper.

Kat peered through the rain-streaked window at an unremarkable brick terrace house, grateful for the diversion. The ordinary Hackney neighborhood looked like any other. “This is your contact’s place?”

“Brock’s been in deep cover operations so long he’s forgotten what normal looks like.” Leo’s voice held a hint of fondness. “But we won’t find a better source of information in the northern hemisphere. If Korolov is behind this, Brock will have threads we can pull.”

They hurried through the rain to the front door. Leo knocked in a distinctive pattern—three quick taps, a pause, two more.

The door opened a crack, revealing a single suspicious eye behind a heavy security chain.

“You look like shit, Bychkov.” The voice behind the battered door was gruff.

Leo shot Kat a look. “Brock’s always been a charmer.”

The door closed, chain rattled, then swung open fully to reveal a barrel-chested man with a boxer’s nose and a salt-and-pepper beard. He wore a faded Johnny Cash T-shirt.

“Inside. Quick.” He ushered them through the door then hooked a thumb. “Living room’s that way.”

Brock stuck his head outside for a moment before securing multiple deadbolts.

Kat followed Leo down the hall to the living room and froze on the threshold. Every available surface was covered. Hundreds of delicate Royal Doulton figurines lined multiple shelves. Shepherdesses, cherubs, and children with enormous eyes stared down at them from every angle.

“Welcome to Fort Brock,” Leo murmured close to her ear, his breath tickling her neck.

Brock hustled into the room. He gestured to a shepherdess figurine. “Field Marshal Montgomery is overseeing perimeter security today.”

Leo contemplated the room. “No one would believe a serious intelligence operative lives here.”

“That’s the bloody point, isn’t it?” Brock scowled.

Kat caught Leo’s eye, biting her lip to suppress a smile.

“Come.” Brock led them through a narrow door that looked like a closet entrance.

On the other side was a startling transformation—a dining nook that resembled a military command center.

Maps covered the walls, communications equipment hummed softly, and multiple screens displayed CCTV feeds of the surrounding streets.

One monitor showed a news ticker with her name scrolling across the bottom.

Kat rubbed her arms against a sudden chill.

Brock moved into a small kitchen off the dining room.

“Phone.” Brock held out his hand.

Leo reached inside his jacket and handed Brock his cell.

“Um. I don’t have mine,” Kat said when he turned to her.

He gave an approving nod, then placed Leo’s in the microwave.

“Tea?” Brock filled an electric kettle from the tap.

Leo shifted from foot to foot. “We don’t have time for?—”

Brock rubbed his hands together. “Always time for tea when you’re planning an operation.” His unruly eyebrows dented together. “Besides, I’m not sure I want to be involved in whatever shambles you’ve dragged to my doorstep.” He eyed Kat with undisguised suspicion. “MI6, aren’t you?”

“Yes—”

“You were on the news.” Brock gave a low whistle. “Mind you, can’t trust the fucking BBC these days.”

Brock switched on the kettle, a relic from the 1960s, and its worn metal hissed to life.

“And why exactly should I help an MI6 agent who’s gone rogue or been burned?” His voice carried the bite of someone who’d long stopped trusting institutions.

Leo smiled. “Because of Peru.”

Brock frowned. His hand rose to his collarbone, tracing a jagged scar that peeked out from beneath his T-shirt. “Bloody hell, Bychkov. You swore you’d never bring that up.”

Peru? Another piece of Leo’s hidden past she knew nothing about. Just how many secrets did this man keep locked away?

Leo shot Kat a reassuring look. “Desperate times.”

“Not seen you since that business in Copenhagen.” Brock reached for three mismatched mugs, setting them down with a deliberate thud. “Must be serious if you’re dragging yourself to my humble abode.”

Leo folded his arms. “It is.”

Brock plucked tea bags from a chipped commemorative Royal Wedding tin. “That thing in Hellisheidi, with the neuro-engineer and those microchips—proper clusterfuck, by all accounts.” The kettle clicked off and steam rose in a thin column. “That was your outfit?”

Hellisheidi. The mission that had likely set this whole nightmare in motion. She took a slow breath. If she hadn’t provided Leo’s team with intelligence, would she be at her desk right now instead of here with royal figurines watching her every move?

Leo gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

Brock flashed a grin in reply. “Nice work.”

He handed Kat a mug sporting a faded Union Jack. “Take a pew, love. Any friend of the Russian’s worth at least one cuppa before judgment.”

Friend. The casual label stirred something uncomfortable in her chest.

She cupped the mug, grateful for something to do with her hands.

Brock dunked his tea bag forcefully as he joined them in the dining room. “So, what’s the damage?”

Kat glanced at Leo. His nod was almost imperceptible.

She chose her words carefully. “What you’re seeing on the news isn’t the full story. Someone planted classified documents in my house—documents I’ve never seen before.”

“Classic frame job,” Brock muttered.

“The Hellisheidi incident,” Kat continued, “I was the one who provided the intelligence on Korolov that scuppered his plan to acquire and sell the Raptor data.”

“Ah.” Brock dumped sugar into his tea. Kat counted six heaping teaspoons and tried not to widen her eyes.

“Revenge, then?”

Revenge. Such a simple word for the systematic destruction of her life.

“That’s our working theory.” Leo cradled his mug, but he didn’t drink. “We need confirmation before we move forward.”

Brock stirred his tea, creating a small whirlpool. “Bychkov’s vouching for you. That counts for something. Not many people he’d stick his neck out for.” His eyes narrowed. “Except maybe after Peru.”

Brock and Leo had shared history. Connection. The very thing she’d fought so hard against for so long.

A sly grin spread across Brock’s face before he slurped noisily from his mug. “Heard whispers here and there. Nothing concrete, but I’ve got ears in places MI6 doesn’t. I can put out feelers.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Kat said. “Time isn’t exactly on our side.”

Brock opened his mouth to reply when a sharp beep sliced through the room. His head whipped toward the monitors—three screens flashed urgent red.

“Fuck.” Tea splashed across the table as his mug hit hard. The bumbling pensioner vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp operator.

His eyes locked with Leo’s. “Were you followed?”

Cold washed through Kat. “No?—”

“Kitchen. Move. Now.” Brock was already moving, words clipped like gunfire. He herded them into the narrow kitchen.His palm slammed against paneling and a section of wall swung inward with a pneumatic hiss. The space beyond was coffin-narrow. Barely three feet deep.

“In. Both of you. Now.” Brock shoved her into the black mouth of the hiding space.

Kat stumbled forward, glimpsing bottled water, beans and cat food, before Leo’s bulk filled the space behind her, his chest slamming against her back as Brock sealed them in.

Darkness. Complete and suffocating.

His breath ghosted across her nape, each exhale sending shivers racing down her spine. Steel and heat surrounded her—his body a shield, even in hiding.

His arms wrapped around her waist, his fingers splayed across her stomach. The solid wall of his chest expanded with each breath against her shoulder blades. His scent enveloped her—pine soap and something darker, pure male.

She found his forearms, intending to create space, but instead her fingers found the corded muscle beneath his sleeves. His skin burned against her fingertips.

Pressed against him in the darkness, she faced an unsettling truth—the greater danger wasn’t outside this hiding space, but right here, wrapped around her.