Page 24 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

"They're a transnational criminal syndicate." His voice is flat, analytical, devoid of the horror he's describing. "Human trafficking. Weapons. Assassination markets. They operate outside international law, off untraceable dark money." He shifts the 9mm a fraction, his gaze never leaving the door. "You were targeted because you match a specific profile requested by one of their top-tier buyers. A virgin ballerina. Undamaged. Pure. They didn't hit the theater to make a statement. They hit it to acquire inventory."

Inventory. The word freezes the blood in my veins. But it's the violation of the profile—my most private reality sitting in a criminal database—that paralyzes me.

"How do they know that?" The question tears from my throat, raw. "How do they know anything about me?"

Heat burns across my cheeks. Shame. Outrage. That a syndicate has my intimate history on record is terrifying. That he knows it, that he states it with such clinical detachment, is unbearable.

"I'm not." I lift my chin, throwing the lie out with reckless bravado. I refuse to let him strip away the last shreds of my dignity. "I'm not a virgin."

One eyebrow arches, slow and deliberate. The discipline in his gaze doesn't waver.

"The Consortium doesn't make mistakes." The words cut straight through the lie, unbothered by my defiance. "They have every medical record, every digital footprint, every private message you've ever sent. Virgins are worth more on the open market. It's an economic reality."

The pragmatism shatters my bravado.

"They took Andrea because they couldn't have you." His gaze stays locked on mine. "They grabbed the closest asset that fit the secondary parameters of the contract to minimize their losses."

"Then my priority is Andrea." I cross my arms, refusing to back down, refusing to let his lethal presence silence me. "I'm not sitting in a cage for two days while my best friend is sold as inventory to the men who shot up our theater."

"You are an extraction package." He leans forward, the muscles in his scarred chest coiling. "A civilian asset. Zero training, zero tactical awareness, zero understanding of the men hunting us. You'll remain in this room until I secure the extraction route."

Fury sparks in my chest. There's still blood on my hands—his blood—and he's dismissing me like luggage.

"I saved your life." I take a step closer, invading his space, weaponizing the very proximity he's trying to avoid. I tilt my chin up, forcing him to acknowledge me not as a package, but as an equal. "On the stairs. Your gun was empty. He had you flanked. I scooped that weapon off the concrete and pulled the trigger. I didn't freeze. I didn't panic. I gave you the opening you needed to survive. I'm an active participant in this nightmare, and I'm not going to let you lock me in a box while you play soldier."

He stands.

The explosive movement forces me back a step. He towers over me, his broad shoulders blocking the red neon from the window.

"You got lucky." He closes the distance, his chest stopping inches from mine. The heat radiating from his skin burns through the damp fabric of my leotard. "You fired a weapon you didn't understand at a target you couldn't identify. A desperate act of survival. It doesn't make you an operator. It makes you a liability."

"I wasn't lucky." I press my index finger against the center of his scarred chest. The contact sends an electric jolt up my arm, but I don't break the connection. "I was focused. I've put thousands of rounds through pistols just like that one. I saw the target. I knew what I was aiming at. My shot landed right where I wanted it, and it gave you your opening. Nothing about it was chaotic. And I'm no liability."

His eyes narrow, something dark shifting beneath the surface.

"You're a ballerina." The statement is a challenge, a demand for an explanation that doesn't fit his dossier.

"And my father was a paranoid accountant who understood how dark the world could be." I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "He taught me how to shoot. Every weekend at the range until the day he was killed in a hit-and-run the police conveniently never solved. So give me a weapon. Point me in the right direction. I'll hunt them down myself."

"You wouldn't last ten minutes."

"I lasted twenty-four hours." I press my finger harder against his chest. "And I'm still standing. We're going after her. With or without your task force."

A dark sound breaks from his chest—too harsh to be a laugh. Pure disbelief.

"We?" He steps forward, closing the last inch between us, forcing me to tip my head back to hold his eyes. "What happened to hunting them down yourself? You just proved my point. You're not trained for this. You need me to survive the next ten seconds."

The heat coming off his skin engulfs me. I don't back down. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a retreat.

The tension in the red-lit room boils over into something more dangerous than anger. His gaze drops to my mouth, tracking the cadence of my breath. The tactical distance between us evaporates. The alleyway is back in the air, heavy and charged.

He leans in. The scent of rain, sweat, and gun smoke wraps around my senses. My pulse hammers at my collarbone.

He doesn't stop. His face drops until his mouth hovers a fraction of an inch above mine. His ragged breath brushes my lips. The discipline of the Tier 1 operator is visibly fracturing. His gray eyes are dilated, consumed by the gravity pulling us together.

I tilt my chin up, closing my eyes, my lips parting.

The silence stretches, electric, inevitable.