As the jeep crept toward Connor’s frat house, Leon cut the engine and rested his forehead against the wheel with a low groan.
“This better go right, Leila. If that sleazeball tries anything—”
“Please.” Leila smacked the back of his head with sisterly precision. “Your heroic growling is cute, but unnecessary. I handled him alone for months while gathering intel. I can handle him for ten minutes.” She punctuated the statement with a quick kiss to his cheek, which made him recoil like she’d just hexed him.
Then she was striding toward the door—curls bouncing, sunset catching in them like trick sparks—before banging twice, hard. The door opened to reveal a wall of a man in black, rifle strapped across his chest. Leon’s hand slid toward a blade on reflex. I caught myself wondering which would win, a blade or a rifle, before the door slammed shut again and Leila vanished inside.
“She’s in,” Leon muttered, still scanning the place like every shadow owed him money.
Restlessness chewed at me until I stepped out of the jeep, staying in the blind side of the cameras. Trust wasn’t exactly a thriving flower in this arrangement—especially between Leon and Connor.
“Hey,” I said, leaning against the side of the car. “What actually happened between you two?”
Leon blinked at me. “You were there. You saw the fight, Juls.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I shook my head. “Before I showed up in this mess. Before you and I crossed paths. What happened back then?”
He let out a short, humorless laugh and dropped his head back on the wheel. “The organization happened. That’s where Connor and I met. Lei and I were already plotting our escape, but hadn’t pulled the trigger on it yet. Connor was a rookie—fresh meat. They assigned me to train him.”
My eyebrows shot up. Imagining that duo in a training room was like picturing a thunderstorm arguing with a wildfire. “How’d that go?”
“About as well as you’re imagining,” he said. “Your father hand-picked him, but I didn’t give him special treatment. He needed to be broken down and rebuilt the right way. Structure. Discipline.” His grip tightened on the wheel. “He hated that.”
There was something he wasn’t saying. “What went wrong?”
“Ego,” Leon said simply. “The guy has enough ego to power the whole organization on arrogance alone. He wanted influence, but your father was never going to hand that over. Especially not when you were the more likely successor back then.” He exhaled through his nose. “Connor pushed too hard. He cut corners. He got reckless. Eventually, he had to face me.”
He looked away for a beat, revisiting something sharp.
“We fought. He lost. He was stripped of rank and your father cast him aside. No district wanted him after that. I guess he blames me for everything that came after.”
He reached for my hand, tugging me gently closer. “Funny thing? If I hadn’t followed you out of sheer stubbornness, I never would’ve pieced the bigger picture together. In a bizarre way, maybe I was supposed to make you mad that day.”
He flashed that smug, toothy grin.
I tapped his forehead lightly. “That absolutely doesn’t excuse your behavior, and you know it.”
We both looked back at the house just as the door opened. Leila stepped out with Connor beside her, leaned in, whispered something in his ear—full “organization charm” activated—and then kissed him. When she bounced back toward us, Connor looked dazed, like someone had hit him with a spellbook.
I stared. “You used my tactic.”
Her only answer was a giggle. Leon looked equal parts confused and betrayed by the universe.
“Do I even want to know?” he asked.
“Probably not,” she said, patting his shoulder from the backseat. “All that matters is: he agreed. Not only to help, but to lend resources—and he wants to take down the organization for good.”
I let out a breath, impressed despite myself. Connor melting that fast was… unexpected.
“So,” I asked, “what’s next?”
Leila kicked back in the seat. “Now we drive to Washington.”
We’d only been on the road for three hours, climbing the California coast, and every one of us was trying not to think about Daniel. The Jeep hummed beneath us like a tired animal, and I kept my eyes pinned to the asphalt so my mind wouldn’t wander where it wanted to go.
Leila sat shotgun, legs propped on the dash, maps draped over her lap like paper wings. Every few minutes she’d flip a page, muttering coordinates to herself. In the rearview mirror, I could see Leon sprawled out across the backseat, clutching his swords like they were childhood plushies. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady waves. He slept like someone who’d burned through every ounce of daylight. Daniel was never like that—Daniel snored loud enough to shake the walls.
Daniel… wherever you are, stay alive. Stay stubborn. Stay you.
My grip tightened on the wheel. A lifetime of his rescues came rushing back—the grade-school chaos, the mean girls who thought I was an easy target, the late homework I always hid behind. Every time trouble found me, Daniel showed up instead of our parents. He’d sit beside me in whatever office I’d landed myself in, calm as a monk, taking the lecture that should’ve been mine.
And I never thanked him. Not once. I let the years stack on top of each other without ever saying what he meant to me. When he walked away to chase his dream, it cracked something open in me. I didn’t want to keep breathing the Organization’s air. I didn’t want to be another weapon my father sculpted. I wanted… a self. A life. Something that belonged to me the way his ambition belonged to him.
Growing up in Tenebris felt like being raised in a mirrored box. Every reflection showed who they wanted me to be. My father trained me. The Organization shaped me. I learned theologies, languages, fighting styles, and then they told me to disappear so completely that none of it mattered unless they said it did. Predator, never prey. Shadow, never spotlight.
By the time I officially joined, they’d carved me into their perfect prodigy. Kendo felt like an extension of my heartbeat. Rifles became natural—dangerous, yes, but precise. One shot, one kill. My energy ran through every weapon I touched, even the ones that almost kicked my shoulder out of its socket when I was younger. They sent me on missions meant for ghosts: government officials, wealthy tyrants, anyone who threatened their fragile balance.
Sometimes solo. Sometimes duo.
My very first duo assignment was with Michael. He was new—soft edges, quiet smile. I had to teach him everything. Hand-holding was inevitable. Falling in love wasn’t.
And that… that was the first crack in the foundation.
<<<<<<<<Flashback>>>>>>>>
Strong, calloused hands slipped over my eyes just as I finished packing the last of my weapons. I didn’t need to turn around to know who they belonged to. I peeled them away slowly, savoring the familiar warmth.
“I missed you today,” Michael murmured against my ear. “Your father’s a drill sergeant. I swear if he gives me another set of swatting reps, my legs are going to file a complaint.”
I laughed quietly and leaned back into his chest. “He’s obsessed with conditioning. Give it a few weeks—those legs of yours will outrun a panther.” The joke earned a soft kiss, gentle enough to break my guard. I stepped back before he could deepen it. “We shouldn’t… you know what happens if we’re caught.”
His shoulders dropped. “I know.” He traced my jaw with the back of his knuckle, voice dropping to a whisper. “But all day without you? My mind wandered to places I shouldn’t admit.” He nipped at my ear, tentative, teasing. My breath hitched in a way I hoped he didn’t hear.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway—measured, military. Michael reacted first, pulling us around the nearest corner and into the shadows. He held a finger to his lips. His eyes were sharp, disciplined. For a rule-breaker in theory, he was a model soldier in execution.
The footsteps stopped. A gravel-soaked voice cut through the stillness.
“Reconsider this. We’re out of time. We must double down on our offense.”
Michael and I exchanged a look. Bartholomew Moore. East Commander. Or—in my personal dictionary—Barf. A wall of muscle with the intelligence of wet cardboard, but unfortunately appointed to power.
Dad’s voice answered, deep and steady with command. “I’m not sending more out to die. The recruits aren’t prepared, and if we deploy the Elite, we’ll be defenseless. The attacks are escalating, but we’re not ready. That is final.”
Their exchange snapped off in opposite directions—Barf stomping away, Dad marching toward the strategy chambers. A second later, the impact of a fist crashing into cement shook the hallway. Michael held me still until the echoes died.
When we finally stepped out, the wall bore the evidence—Barf’s knuckles had left a crater in the concrete, streaked with flecks of blood.
“Someone woke up cranky,” I muttered.
Michael studied the damage, worry tightening the corners of his eyes. “This isn’t just frustration. Feels personal.”
“Everything’s personal lately.” I shrugged. “These attacks have everyone on edge. Fresh recruits dropping like flies, higher ranks panicking, and we’re babysitting so no one dies on our watch. It’s a circus.”
“Not all of us fresh recruits are useless,” he protested, bumping his shoulder into mine.
I ruffled his hair, grinning. “True. You’re the golden exception. You’ve only slowed me down slightly. Try to keep that consistent tonight.”
He gave me that smug, quiet smirk I’d come to memorize. “I’ll do my best.”
<<<<<<Flashback (Duo Mission)>>>>>>
“All systems are a go. You set in position?”
Michael’s voice murmured through the earpiece in my left ear—steady, low, already locked into the mission. He was stationed far above the gala, rifle set, eyes tracking every shift in my silhouette as I drifted through the glittering crowd.
My gaze swept the room until it landed on the target: tall, wiry frame wrapped in a government-official suit heavy with prestige medals. He laughed too loudly with his colleagues. Gelled black hair, a streak of silver, a scar tucked into the right cheek. Orangish-brown eyes that scanned for pleasure instead of threats.
Perfect match to the file.
I slipped off my coat, revealing the backless silk dress hugging me like a second skin. The general didn’t stand a chance. His gaze snapped to me the moment my shoulders turned. Hook, line, sinker.
“Target acquired,” I whispered, taking a champagne flute as I glided closer.
“He’s moving. Get ready,” Michael breathed.
A rough hand pressed against the middle of my back, and I feigned surprise as I turned to look up at Mr. Santiago. He wore a grin that tried too hard and failed even harder.
“Excuse me,” he said, thick English accent curling around every syllable. “May I have a dance?”
I hated Englishmen. But the mission demanded the mask.
So I smiled. “Of course.”
He dragged me toward the dancefloor. The crowd softened around us, the room blurring at the edges. His eyes roamed me, shameless. Each dip was an excuse to touch where he shouldn’t.
Imagine Michael instead, I told myself.
Michael’s hands. Michael’s rhythm. Michael’s heartbeat tucked against mine.
Dancing with him would feel like flying.
The song ended. The fantasy vanished. Santiago’s face loomed back into focus, and I pulled away fast.
“You didn’t enjoy the dance?” he asked, confused.
Lie, always lie. “I did. I’m just a little lightheaded. Perhaps we could move somewhere quieter?”
The bait worked. His grin widened. He ushered me upstairs through a set of double doors, ignoring the disapproving stares. In the private room, he offered me another drink. I declined. He kept insisting.
“This is where the fun starts,” he crooned.
Michael’s voice broke through the static. “Now?”
There was tension in the question—his finger resting too close to the trigger.
I cast a tiny shake of my head toward the window.
“C’mon, cat,” Santiago grunted as he tossed aside his jacket. “I’m getting impatient.”
His hands clamped around my arm and dragged me closer. He locked the doors. My heartbeat kicked up—not fear, just adrenaline sharpening my vision.
He pressed me against the window. His breath was rancid. His hands roamed. I held still. One minute. Let him get sloppy. Let him think he’s winning.
My hair clip was small enough to pass security, but it was no ordinary clip. My fingers found it, twisted, and the weapon bloomed into its full form—a sword humming with purple energy, markings flaring along my skin.
Santiago stumbled back. “What the hell is that?”
He reached for the phone. The dart I flicked sank cleanly into his hand, pinning it to the desk before he ever touched the receiver. Pathetic.
“You wanted me,” I said quietly. “Here I am.”
Fear replaced lust in his eyes—my favorite transformation.
He began to scream for help. I silenced him with his own tie. Fitting.
“Lux in Tenebris,” I recited. “You have served your purpose. Nunc est tempus pro te moriar.”
“Get out of there,” Michael ordered. “I see movement.”
Footsteps thundered toward the room. A silent alarm—Santiago must’ve triggered it. I ripped sheets from the bed, tied them around the bedpost, and made a makeshift rope.
As soon as my feet hit the grass below, soldiers flooded the courtyard.
“You’ve committed treason!” the director barked. “Kill her!”
Bullets stormed the air. My sword moved like instinct, slicing each round as if the air itself was guiding me. When the last magazine emptied, I lunged. Knockout after knockout—fluid, inevitable.
Only the director remained. He cracked his knuckles like some cartoon villain. I sheathed my sword.
Hand-to-hand would be more satisfying.
He charged. I blocked every strike, bored out of my mind.
“This is dull,” I muttered. “Michael, you can take this one.”
His voice was closer—then he appeared, blades glowing white with energy. The director barely had time to react before Michael’s swords crossed, one blocking, one plunging straight into his heart.
“Lux in Tenebris,” Michael murmured as the body hit the ground. “You have served your purpose.”
Alarms wailed throughout the compound.
We fled into the night, breathless and muddy, the hillside swallowing us from sight.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered as we drove off. “I should’ve made it cleaner.”
Michael glanced at me. “It wasn’t your fault. Someone tipped them off. They knew we were coming.”
“Perhaps…” I said softly.
I couldn’t tell him the truth.
That the mission was designed to expose Tenebris—and I sabotaged it myself.
That I’d planned to be captured.
That he was never supposed to be part of it.
And that seeing him beside me—fighting for me—made escape feel farther away than ever.
