Brock stood with his back to those windows, city lights creating an artificial halo behind his silhouette. Ronan stood ten feet away, poised like a predator. They faced each other in perfect stillness.
“Found you,” I whispered.
Something was wrong. Brock should be surprised and afraid. Instead, he stood with the relaxed posture of a man in complete control.
“Maeve.” Ronan’s voice was terrifyingly calm in my ear. “Get out. Now.”
My breath caught as the horrible truth crashed over me. The mission, our planning, our confidence—all of it was exactly what Brock had expected. We hadn’t infiltrated his estate.
He had invited us in.
Chapter 25
Reaper
With my gun extended in a two-handed grip, I moved through the doorway. The office materialized before me—smart furnishings, clean lines, and those goddamn windows. The São Paulo skyline stretched beyond the glass, a patchwork of blue-black shadows and amber lights. My boots made the hardwood floor groan as I advanced.
I’d been there before.
The thought hit me with brutal force. Not déjà vu, but something deeper. A memory trying to break through concrete.
Brock sat behind an ironwood desk that could double as a fortress. His eyes met mine with neither surprise nor fear—a man expecting company, not an assassin. His movements were unhurried as he lifted a crystal decanter and poured amber liquid into a tumbler. My aim didn’t waver, centered on his forehead, but his eyebrows merely lifted.
“Always pleasant to have company,” he said, swirling the liquor.
The air conditioning hummed, raising goosebumps along my arms despite the tropical heat outside. Everything felt wrong. A stage set specifically for my arrival.
My finger tensed against the trigger. One squeeze and this would end. But the answers would die with him.
“Where’s Xavier?” I demanded, voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking through my system.
“That’s really the first question you want to ask me? You’ve stooped low, my friend,” Brock replied with the ease of discussing yesterday’s weather. Not a man at gunpoint. Not a man who should be afraid.
He stood, and I tensed. But Brock simply circled his desk, tumbler in hand, movements deliberate. Another memory fragmented through—standing in this exact spot, receiving orders, his hand clapping my shoulder in false camaraderie.
You’re my best asset, Reaper.
The flashback shattered, leaving me disoriented. I blinked sweat from my eyes, forcing down the nausea as I refocused on Brock. My finger tightened on the trigger.
“You’re looking unwell,” Brock observed, casually turning his back to me. The deliberate vulnerability—a man who knew he wasn’t in danger. He faced the windows, city lights reflecting in the glass. “Conditioning breakdown is an ugly process.”
The dismissal—the blatant disregard for the threat I posed—created unbearable tension. I adjusted my stance, preparing to fire. “One more step and you die where you stand.”
“Is that what you came for?” Brock asked, still watching the skyline. “To kill me?”
“You betrayed me,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
Brock took a measured sip of his drink, shoulders relaxing as if we were old friends catching up. “Is that what she told you? Your journalist?” He turned, eyes flicking to the security monitor on his desk. “The girl who’s busy downloading my files right now?”
My heart rate spiked.Maeve. How did he know? Was this another setup? But I kept my expression neutral. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“On the contrary.” Brock set down his glass. “She has everything to do with this. What intrigues me is your attachment to her, and that’s why I wanted to see her again.”
He stepped closer, the space between us contracting. I chambered another round with an audible click—a final warning.
“You’ve been off your leash for too long, Reaper.” Brock took another step forward. “Or should I call you Ronan again?”
The use of my name—my real name—hit like a physical blow. My vision blurred at the edges, pain lancing behind my temples. Brock’s eyes glittered with satisfaction as he stepped deeper into my space, completely defying the threat of my weapon.
