Reaper set the reassembled pistol down, his movements economical. “Extraction plans. You’re leaving Brazil today.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “What?”
“Ten hours to Istanbul,” he continued, as if discussing the weather. “New identity has already been processed. Specter’s contacts will handle your placement.”
Each detail landed like another betrayal. Istanbul. New identity. Placement. Notourplacement.Yourplacement. I pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers, trying to process his words. Tryingnotto tell him to go to hell. We had this conversation once before—when I’d told him he doesn’t get to make all the decisions. That we were partners. Apparently not.
“Your brother is still our priority,” Reaper added, voice detached. “But you’re a liability in the field now. Brock wants you specifically. Your presence jeopardizes operational security.”
My stomach dropped, a physical plummet that left me hollow. Something in my chest seemed to cave inward, making each breath an effort. My eyes met his again. I was searching for something—anything—to show me that the man who had held me was still there.Nothing.
“You’ll be given sufficient resources,” Specter interjected, not meeting my eyes. “Safe accommodation, new documentation. When this is over...”
“When what is over?” I cut in, my voice barely audible to my own ears.
Reaper’s face remained impassive. “I’ll extract your brother. Neutralize Brock. Dismantle as much of Oblivion’s structure as possible.”
I. Not we.
Last night, in the darkness, I’d rehearsed an entirely different scene. Those prepared confessions turned to ash in my mouth. I still wanted to say them out loud, but I couldn’t. Not that it mattered, anyway. He wouldn’t hear them. Not when he was like this.
“This was always the endgame,” Reaper said, voice flat. “Your safety secured. Your brother recovered. Mission parameters don’t change because of…” He paused, searching for the clinical term. “Complications.”
Complications. Was that what last night was? A complication?
Something hot and sharp ignited beneath my shock, a flicker of anger striking like a match in darkness. Then, it all hit me at once. This was fucking bullshit. I forced a laugh. It came out ragged, sounding more like someone just punched me in the stomach.
“Complications,” I repeated. The word sat bitter on my tongue. “Is that what we’re calling me? A complication?”
Reaper’s face remained perfectly composed, almost too perfect, like a mask he’d carefully constructed. “What happened between us changes nothing about the operational realities.”
“The operational...” I cut myself off, my voice threatening to break. I took a breath, summoning control. I couldn’t letmyself break. Not like this. Not right now. “Don’t you dare reduce us to some tactical footnote.”
Specter shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very interested in the edge of the table.
“You don’t get to pack me away somewhere safe while you handle everything. Xavier is my brother,” I said, my voice steadier now as anger built beneath my shock.
“And Brock wants you specifically,” Reaper countered, his voice clipped. “Your presence endangers the mission.”
“Mymission,” I snapped back. “This was my mission before you were even free of your conditioning. Before you even knew I existed and would become your target! I was the one who dragged you out of it! I was the one who risked my goddamn life to save you! I was the one who didn’t let you give up.”
Something flickered across Reaper’s face—the first crack in his perfect composure. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the gun he’d assembled, knuckles whitening before he forced them to relax.
“You’re treating me like I’m some liability to be managed,” I continued, my voice rising despite my efforts to control it. “What happened to us being partners? What happened to ‘we’llfind Xavier’?”
Specter rose, moving to the window to scan the perimeter. I knew he was giving us space, but his movement only emphasized how exposed we all were—how the external threats continued regardless of this internal war between us.
“Ensuring your safety is the priority,” Reaper said, each word measured. But something in his voice wavered, almostimperceptibly. He was trying to stick to the narrative he had built inside his head while I was asleep. “That was always the objective.”
“Was it?” I stepped closer, close enough for him to touch me to move past. “Because last night, when you held me, when you whispered my name like a prayer—that didn’t feel like you were planning to ship me off to Istanbul.”
Reaper’s jaw tightened, a muscle there jumping beneath taut skin. His eyes—those eyes that had warmed with something like tenderness hours before—flickered away from mine, unable to hold contact.
“So that’s it?” I demanded, forcing myself into his sight line. “You find out about Sofia and decide I’m just the same? That I’ll break just like she did?”
His eyes flared at the name, something dark and wounded surfacing like blood in water before he buried it again.
“I don’t remember Sofia,” he said, voice low. He shifted his weight backward, the slightest retreat. “But if sending you away means you’ll still be alive and breathing after all this is done—not hanging from a rope—I can live with your hatred.”
