And standing in the ruins of it, in borrowed tactical pants and a feral hitman’s oversized t-shirt, holding my daughter in a freezing mountain cabin while the Broken Halos who burnedtheir world to save mine plan the total destruction of my brother’s empire—I do not feel like a princess.
I feel like a queen.
15
NICK
My dark eyes remain locked on the woman sitting on the edge of the leather sofa.
Lucia holds Tyra in her lap, tracing a hand over the little girl’s dark curls. Tyra clutches her ragged grey wolf, her eyes heavy with sleep. Lucia wears Rafe’s oversized t-shirt; the thick cotton hangs off her frame, yet it fails to mask the lethal energy vibrating beneath her skin. She is a cartel princess turned fierce protector, her spine straight, refusing to bend.
The scent of rose, baby powder, and adrenaline sinks into my blood.
The primary objective is dismantling Dominic Costa’s empire. The stolen USB drive provides the ammunition for the kill shot. We have the leverage. We have the data.
I don’t care about the data.
A lull settles over the room. Daniel pauses his typing to drink. Mia stretches her neck. Kaila shifts her focus to the firewall. The timing is optimal.
I set my mug on the stone mantle. I walk across the room, my combat boots silent on the wood. I stop in front of the sofa.
“We need to go over communication protocols,” I state. My voice is flat, calibrated to reach the team without sounding like a formal announcement.
Lucia turns her head. Confusion flashes across her exhausted features.
“Dominic uses burner sequences,” I continue, building the operational cover. “I need your knowledge of his habits. Secure details. Things we won’t put on a whiteboard in front of the team.”
The lie is airtight. Dominic’s paranoia dictates compartmentalization. Nobody questions the Commander.
Rafe stands near the kitchen. His golden eyes flick from my face to Lucia’s. His jaw tightens, but he offers no interference. He turns back to the tactical map.
I pull two winter jackets off the rack near the door. I don’t ask for her preference. I hold the smaller black jacket out.
“Jude, can you take her?” Lucia asks.
The Surgeon steps forward, his massive, scarred hands reaching out with reverence. Lucia transfers the child into his arms.
“Mommy needs to talk about something,” Lucia whispers, kissing Tyra’s forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
Jude shifts Tyra’s weight against his chest. “We can make pancakes,” he tells her, his baritone softening. Tyra’s eyes light up.
Lucia stands and walks toward me. She takes the jacket. Our fingers don’t brush, but the space between us hums. I open the heavy door. We step out into the grey morning light.
The freezing mountain air hits like a wall. The cold is brutal and clean. Thick, fresh snow covers the ground, leaving a pristine silence in the woods.
I walk beside her. I don’t take the lead, which would treat her like a package. I don’t walk behind, which would treat her like a prisoner. We move shoulder to shoulder, our physical alignment establishing her as a partner.
The path to the outbuilding is narrow. The snow forces us together. The nylon of my jacket brushes her sleeve with every step. I don’t move away. I let the friction build.
I don’t speak. Silence is a tool. It forces the target to reveal their nervous energy.
Lucia doesn’t break. She matches my pace, her chin held high against the biting wind. She is waiting for my opening move.
The dark silhouette of the generator shed emerges from the pines. We reach the door. I grip the iron handle and pull it open.
We step inside. The shed is cramped, housing the diesel generator powering our grid. The mechanical hum vibrates through the floor. The air is stiflingly warm, heated by the laboring engine and the scent of spilled diesel and hot metal.
Lucia unzips her jacket. The dim amber light of a bare bulb catches the exhaustion on her face. I close the door and slide the iron deadbolt.