“Change of plans.” Roman tosses the phone onto the dash. “Pavel isn’t at the penthouse. He’s moved.”
My heart sinks, a cold weight pressing against my ribs.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Did you really think this would be easy? That you’d just roll up with a small army, take out Pavel, and skip into the fucking sunset?
“He knew we were coming?” I worry that Teddy or Arata tipped him off—that Roman let these men in, for me, and that will have ruined everything.
“No,” Roman says. “He’s paranoid, alienating his inner circle. Acting erratic.” There’s a dark, calculating edge in his voice. “Afanasy paid off one of his men for the intel. We’ve got a location.”
“So now what?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. The right answer, and the Roman answer.
The right answer? We tell Teddy, pass along the new plan, alert him of the change in tactics. A calculated approach. Maybe this is a sign that we shouldn’t just go in guns blazing after all. We should just arrest Pavel…
Great idea. Then you can arrest the boogeyman, and throw in a sleep paralysis demon for good measure.
Roman’s eyes pin me to my seat. I remember that night outside the gala and the feeling of being frozen in place by his gaze.
“I need to do this my way.”
He’s vibrating with that need I’ve always recognized in myself. The one I’ve spent a lifetime hiding. The one he saw, and craved, and set free.
But something else tries to grip me: a memory of oaths and duty, an inner compass that spins wildly out of control.
You can still go back to being Detective Cantiano. You can snap the fuck out of it.
He catches my hesitation, brow furrowing.
“I need you with me, Giselle,” he says. “Only you.”
The words shred me. It’s all I ever wanted, and the thing I fear the most.
This isn’t just about justice anymore. This is about us: two forces colliding, trying to make sense of the wreckage we carry.
Roman is asking me, one last time, if I trust his way of doing things.
If I trust him.
“Okay,” I say. The finality of it hits me like cold water. “Whatever it takes.”
A flicker of something warm passes through his features—pride, perhaps, or gratitude.
“Together,” he says. It’s a pact sealed in unsteady breaths and fervent stares.
He takes a left, hard, and we leave the convoy behind.
Each heartbeat syncs to the night’s pulse. We are threading a fine line between love and ruin.
Love?
Of course, that’s what’s been at the bottom of this well all along.
People want love that’s clean, simple, obvious.
This isn’t any of those things.
I glance at him, the taut lines of his jaw, the wild confidence in the way he grips the wheel. I want to tell him how I feel, how he’s a chasm I willingly plunge into, again and again.
