I was never supposed to survive that night.
Five years ago, during our final academy assignment, everything went to hell. Michael and I had just cracked into the target's server when the alarms blared, lights flashing like a rave from hell. I remember the way his eyes snapped to mine. There was no fear, just that sharp, calculating calm that used to piss me off, and make me feel safe.
He told me to run.
But I didn't. We'd trained for this. We moved together like clockwork, until the explosion separated us. I landed hard behind a concrete beam, blood running from a gash on my temple, ears ringing. When I regained some semblance of strength, Michael was gone. So were the agents. The building had collapsed in parts, and fire consumed the rest.
The official report said I died. No body found. Gas leak, accidental fire. Tragic loss. But that was the point. I made it out through a sewer grate, left a trail of charred illusions, and disappeared.
I watched my apartment on the Upper East Side burn down on a burner phone's news app. I booked a one-way ride to the rougher end of town, shaved my hair, and walked into Aunt Mabel's crumbling duplex with a duffel bag and a fake limp.
Now, five years later, I'm still here.
Living with a bitter old woman who drinks gin at 9 a.m. and calls me worthless when she's not crying about missed bingo nights. But I play the part well, meek, tired, barely scraping by. Odd jobs in diners and warehouses. Hood up. Eyes low. Invisible.
But I'm not broke.
Every mission I've taken since going ghost paid well. Very well. Enough for a secure house in the outskirts, customized tech, a reinforced panic room, and a top security system for protection. And I'm moving in soon. Thirteen days, to be exact. Aunt Mabel can have her dusty tiny room back.
Lately, though, her new boy toy has been acting strange. Too attentive. Too curious. And I've caught him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking. Then last night, I heard him on the phone, speaking Yoruba. Mr. Segun's language.
I grew up in a Nigerian household. I know when someone's reporting to a handler.
He said my code name.
Said I wasn't what I seemed. Said he'd keep watching. Said Mabel was an annoying hag, but "worth tolerating to keep eyes on the girl."
That girl is me.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just memorized every word.
He can watch all he wants. I'll be gone soon, and he'll have nothing to report but my shadow.
Still, I can't take chances.
So today, I'm scoping out my new safehouse early. Then I'm hitting up Carter's Café for intel. Word is, someone matching the rogue MI6 agent's description was seen there a nights ago.
I walk in with my hair back in loose curls, oversized hoodie, and those glasses I only wear when I want to disappear. The place smells like vanilla and fresh croissants. I scan the booths, then stop.
Michael.
He's here.
God, he looks good. Sharper. Broader. His jaw is set, the same way it used to be when we ran silent ops. But he's not alone, there's a man beside him in a tailored suit, probably a client. I can't risk him seeing me. Not yet.
But I swear, when he looked up, for half a second, our eyes locked.
My heart stuttered. Just once.
Flashback, Academy party. Red dress. One dance. His hand on my back. My head against his chest. That kiss.
Soft.
Real.
A memory that kept me alive more nights than I'll admit.
I drop a twenty on the counter and walk out before he can chase the past.
We'll see each other again.
Soon.
Getting back to my aunt's apartment, I snuck in through the back door, less drama that way. I slipped into my room, quickly changed out of my clothes, then padded into the kitchen for a glass of water. Aunt Mabel was curled up on the haggard sofa with her boy toy, whispering sweet nonsense like a lovesick teenager.
She looked up the second I walked in, rolled her eyes, and snapped, "Don't touch my food, you good-for-nothing idiot."
Typical.
I didn't say a word. Just grabbed a glass, filled it with room temperature water from the tap, and walked right back to my room without even blinking in her direction.
Once inside, I sank onto the edge of my bed and opened my laptop. I tapped into my encrypted message thread with HQ, updates from the agency about the rogue MI6 agent. Nothing solid yet. I sent back a quick report: Still tracking. Will have results soon.
A few minutes later, I was flipping through my surveillance feeds. Still nothing.
With a tired sigh, I shut the laptop, tossed it to the side, and collapsed onto my bed. But sleep didn't come.
Instead, my thoughts drifted.
To him.
That caramel-skinned, broad-shouldered man with a jaw that could cut glass and a voice that always made my pulse spike. Michael Creed.
My body ached for him, even if my head screamed no. I squeezed my thighs, trying to ignore the throbbing heat building there, but it was no use. I slid my hand between my legs, fingers brushing against my clit, imagining it was his touch, not mine.
The way he'd look at me, take his time, drive me wild. I bit down on my lower lip, eyes fluttering shut, riding the fantasy all the way to a quiet, breathless orgasm.
Damn him.
I turned over and pulled the sheets over my bare legs. Morning couldn't come fast enough.