Page 62 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

Blade

W e settle into a strange rhythm over the next few days.

Wild's wound is healing well, but I find myself watching him when he's not looking—studying the way he moves, the careful precision in everything he does.

It's not unlike watching a fellow predator, recognizing the danger but still drawn to it.

This afternoon, Kiera announced she needed a nap after spending the morning cleaning weapons with us. The gleam in her eye suggested she knew exactly what she was doing, leaving us alone together. She's always been perceptive, seeing things I try to hide even from myself.

Now, like a moth drawn to a flame, I'm leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand, watching Wild review surveillance photos at the table instead of checking in with Phoenix.

The muscles in his forearms flex as he arranges the images.

I've lingered longer than I should. It's been happening more frequently since that morning when we changed his bandages together, since I felt the heat of his skin under my fingers.

"You're hovering," Wild says without looking up from the photos spread across the table. "It's distracting."

"Watching your six," I reply, taking a sip of coffee.

"Watching something," he mutters, shifting a photo to the side. His shoulders are tense, his movements stiff. He feels it too—this unwelcome awareness between us.

I consider retreating to another room and not rocking the boat any further during this shitstorm of danger. Instead, I find myself moving closer, drawn by something I don't want to name.

"You need anything for the pain?" I ask, nodding toward his side where I know the wound is still healing.

"I'm fine." His response is clipped, defensive.

"You're favoring your right side. Still hurts to twist." I set my mug down on the table, too close to his space. A deliberate invasion. "You don't have to pretend around me."

Now he does look up, irritation flashing in his eyes. "What's your angle, Reznik?"

"No angle." I rest my hands on the back of the chair opposite him. "Just making sure you're healing. Kiera would be upset if you ripped those stitches."

"Kiera." He says her name like a lifeline, something safe to discuss. "That's what this is about, isn't it? Making sure I'm fit enough to protect her if needed."

It would be easier to agree, to let him believe that's my only concern. But something about his assumption irritates me.

"Partly," I concede, watching his reaction carefully. "But we both know there's more to it."

The silence that follows is heavy with implications. Wild's jaw tightens as he deliberately returns his gaze to the photos, but his focus is gone. I've disrupted his equilibrium, and there's a certain satisfaction in that.

"You've done this before," he says finally, his voice carefully neutral. It's not a question.

"Yes." No point denying it now.

His eyes lift to meet mine, searching. "With men."

I hold his gaze steadily, refusing to show discomfort. "Yes. With men. With women. With couples."

Something flickers across his face—curiosity, relief, perhaps even jealousy.

"And Kiera knows?"

A harsh laugh escapes me. "Kiera doesn't miss much. Even stuff I try to hide." I move to the window, needing space, checking the perimeter out of habit.

Wild pushes the photos aside and stands, wincing slightly at the pull on his healing wound. "Why bring this up now?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with implication. I turn to face him, grateful for the distance that stops me from reaching out to touch him at the confusion on his unshaven face.

"Because I need to know where your head is. This situation is complicated enough without..." I gesture vaguely between us, unwilling to name it directly.

"Without what?" He takes a step closer, challenging me to say it.

"Without whatever this is becoming." The admission costs me something, but there's no going back now. "I've shared women before. Been with men before. It satisfied a need, scratched an itch."

"And now?" Another step closer.

"Now it's about her. Everything is about her." I meet his eyes directly. "She needs us both."

"But that's not all this is, is it?" His voice drops lower, the intensity in his gaze unmistakable. "Not for you. Not anymore."

My jaw clenches. I don't want to admit it, but lying now would only complicate things further.

"No. Not anymore."

He nods slowly, processing this. "I didn't come here looking for this."

"Neither did I."

"I came for her." His voice softens when he speaks of Kiera, the same way as mine does. "I've been obsessed with her for years. Everything I've done—destroying evidence, turning against the Bureau—it was all for her."

"I know." I lean back against the wall, studying him. "We have that in common, at least. She's... everything."

"She is." He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of uncertainty. "But now..."

"Now there's this," I finish for him.

Images flash through my mind—Barcelona, five years ago, the diplomat and his wife; Tokyo, the twins who specialized in corporate espionage; London, the MI6 agent who liked to be watched. All pleasurable distractions, physical release without emotional complication.

"It's different," I find myself saying. "What's happening here."

"Different how?" His voice is almost a challenge.

"They weren't her," I say simply. "And they weren't you."

Wild studies me for a long moment, his expression guarded. "You barely know me."

"I know enough." I push off from the wall. "I know you've been hunting Wraith for years. I know you're willing to throw away everything you've built for her. I know you look at her the same way I do."

"And how do I look at you?" The question catches me off guard.

"Like you're trying to decide if I'm worth the risk," I answer honestly.

His lips quirk in what might almost be a smile. "And am I? Worth the risk to you?"

I've never been good at vulnerability, at admitting want. I've spent a lifetime building walls, keeping people at arm's length. The only exception has been Kiera. Until now.

"I haven't decided yet," I say, though we both know it's not entirely true.

"Liar." There's no heat in the accusation, just recognition.

"Have you ever been with a man before?" I ask, changing tactics.

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "A few times. Enough to know what I like."

"And what do you like, Agent?"

The title is deliberate, a reminder of who he was, who he's leaving behind.

His eyes darken. "I like knowing where I stand. I like clear boundaries." He takes another step, closing the distance between us to something dangerous. "And I like pushing those boundaries, with the right people."

The air between us is electric, charged with possibility and restraint. Part of me wants to step back, maintain the safe distance. Another part wants to eliminate it completely, to discover if the tension between us would translate to something more physical, more primal.

"And where do you stand now?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.

"In uncharted territory." His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. "But I think you already knew that."

From the hallway comes the soft sound of a door opening. We both step back instinctively, putting appropriate distance between us as Kiera appears in the doorway. Her hair is mussed from sleep, her eyes alert as they move between us, cataloging the tension in the room.

"Well," she says, a slow smile spreading across her face as she takes in our positions, the charged atmosphere. "Looks like you two found something to talk about while I was asleep."

Her knowing expression confirms what I've suspected all along—she's been orchestrating this, pushing us together, watching the sparks fly.

And despite my usual resistance to being manipulated, I can't find it in me to be angry.

Not when she looks at us both with such open desire, such obvious satisfaction.

"Just comparing notes," Wild says, his composure returning too quickly for my liking.

"On what?" Kiera asks, moving into the kitchen with predatory grace.

Wild and I exchange a look—brief, loaded with unspoken understanding.

"Tactics," I lie smoothly. "Turns out we have more in common than we thought."

Kiera laughs, the sound both delighted and knowing.

"Is that what we're calling it now?" She reaches for the coffee pot, brushing against me deliberately as she passes. "I'm glad you boys are finally playing nice."

The double entendre isn't lost on either of us. Wild's eyes meet mine over her head, and I see in them the same realization I've come to: this thing between us, this unexpected attraction, isn't going away. And Kiera, far from being threatened by it, seems to find it endlessly fascinating.

We've found ourselves in a dangerous new configuration, the three of us. And for the first time in my life, I'm not sure where the boundaries lie or who's really in control.