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"Get back in the car."

"Something happened and you're about to handle it without telling me. That's not how this works anymore."

She's standing on a dock in the middle of the night, surrounded by armed men and illegal cargo and she's arguing with me abouttransparency.

A year ago she would have been trembling. Now she's steady as stone, and the collar glints at her throat like a dare.

"Warehouse Six is on fire. Russians. They killed one of my men and left a message."

"What message?"

I hesitate. She catches it. "What is the message, Cassius?"

"'Your queen makes you slow.'"

Something shifts behind her eyes. Not fear.

Something harder. Something that looks like the moment a predator realizes it's being hunted and decides to hunt back.

“Show me,” she says.

“Selene.”

“Show me the warehouse. Show me what they did. If they’re using me as a weapon against you, I need to understand what that looks like.”

I let the silence stretch—not because I’m uncertain. Because everyone is watching.

My men aren’t looking at her.

They’re looking at me.

I step closer, lowering my voice so only she hears it. “You don’t need to understand it,” I say evenly. “I do.”

Her jaw tightens—but she doesn’t argue.

After a beat, I make the decision.

“Peter,” I say, eyes still on Selene. “Warehouse Six. Lock it down before we arrive.”

Peter moves immediately.

Not because she asked.

Because I did.

Then I look back at her. “You stay beside me. You don’t step ahead. And you don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

A pause.

“Understood?”

This time, when she nods, it isn’t a victory.

It’s alignment.

The fire is mostly out by the time we arrive.

The building is a skeleton, steel beams twisted and blackened, the loading dock collapsed inward.