Chapter 16 - Zane
The summer heat clings to everything like a second skin, heavy and relentless. The air is thick with the scent of pine and dry earth, buzzing with the sound of cicadas. Time passes in a blur, one long, hot day bleeding into the next.
I’m twirling Maisie around in a darkened ballroom, a rented venue for one of the Haverwood pack’s many shady dances. Her laughter is light, the sound bubbling up from her throat like she’s actually having fun. Her movements are fluid and loose, softened as if she’s inebriated, just tipsy enough to let go of her tension, dark silk dress swirling out around her in a rippling halo, hair loose for once in all its untamed curls.
Too easy to forget it’s fake.
The feel of her in my arms, the way she fits against me like we’ve been dancing this way forever. Anyone looking at us would assume we’ve been together for years.
"You're good at this, you know," Maisie laughs freely as I spin her around, the edge of her voice just barely cutting through the thrum of orchestral music around us.
A nearby trio of older men is watching us, but not too closely. It’s easy for them to believe the story we’ve sold. Two lovers utterly wrapped up in each other, completely lost in their own world.
For the past month, nobody has bothered us about our act, not like that man did on the night…
I force the thought of that night from my mind. No, Zane. Absolutely not.
My hand presses against the small of her back as I draw her close again, my lips brushing her ear.
“That’s because you make it look real,” I murmur, and it’s true. She does. So well that I almost believe it sometimes.
But I can feel the tautness in her limbs, the tightness she can’t fully hide, even in moments like these, even in the middle of a crowded room where all eyes are on us. She smiles, she flirts, she plays the part, but there it is. She’s pulling away.
“No whispers tonight,” she giggles loudly, which means leave Maisie alone; you only have access to Vivian.
It’s getting harder to ignore when she does that.
Later, when we slip away from the party into the humid night, the charade falls away instantaneously.
We don’t speak. Maisie walks ahead of me, her shoulders tight, her jaw clenched. I fall into step beside her, wanting to say something, anything, but the words catch in my throat.
Only a month ago, it was I who was maintaining the space between us, keeping it broad and un-bridged. Now, I find myself wondering how to get her to speak to me again half the time.
Then again, I promised myself the morning after everything that I would give her space. I’ve stuck to that promise.
I say nothing. She says nothing, either.
She doesn’t look at me when we climb into the car, her gaze fixed on the dark horizon ahead. I drive into the night in silence, the hum of the engine the only sound as the strain between us mounts.
My brother has been texting me on occasion.
The women all think you did something, he said the other day.
Fuck off, I texted him back, as is my duty as the older brother.
But when we’re on the job, everything is different. When we’re in front of the Haverwoods or our enemies, we play the part like we were born for it. The chemistry is undeniable, the passion palpable. No one suspects a thing.
"Zane, Darling, could you grab me a drink?"
Maisie’s voice is soft and sweet, her eyes glinting under the dim lights of yet another gathering, her hand slipping into mine as if we’re perfectly in sync.
I squeeze her fingers lightly, nodding as I walk to the bar and flash her a brilliant smile, the kind of smile that used to get me whatever I wanted back in my rogue days. I order her go-to drink without her having to ask like any doting partner would. I know all these things about her now: the foods she orders at restaurants, her favorite drinks, her favorite music, all the dances she knows.
I know almost everything about her except the things that matter.
When I return, Maisie smiles up at me, her lips brushing my cheek in a fleeting kiss. Sometimes, when we’re together, I see jealousy in the eyes of our onlookers. We’re the perfect couple, the ones people wish they could be. She’s mine, I’m hers.
Strangers sigh wistfully. They see it as love. They don’t see the gulf between us that’s widening with every passing day.
At one point during the mission, her fingers trail along my arm, her touch sending a familiar jolt through me, the kind I’ve felt since the very first time.
She leans in, whispering close, “Move. The mark’s getting suspicious.”
They’re some of the first words she’s said to me as Maisie all month, and she’s only saying them because she has to.
I nod, not breaking, but the energy between us simmers beneath every word, every glance. We’re so close, yet so far apart.
Only one other time has she spoken to me plainly since we made love last month. Last week, we were at another event, a fancy, high-profile gala with too many eyes on us and not enough time to do recon.
Maisie was wearing this deep emerald dress, one that hugged her in all the right ways, and we were dancing again, spinning through the crowd like we owned the place.
"You’re beautiful," I whispered into her hair, my lips grazing her temple.
She smiled up at me, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“You don’t mean that.” Her voice was flat and lifeless. It was as if I had wrung the energy wholly out of her, and she had nothing left to give or to say to me.
Now, I catch her watching me across the room as I weave through the crowd. Her gaze is sharp, assessing. She’s gotten better at hiding her hurt, but I can still feel it, like a bruise that hasn’t healed.
I want to beg her to talk to me. I never knew I could feel so desperate for another person. Even Tessa didn’t make me feel this way.
And the worst part? I deserve it.
I’ve tried to give her space, tried not to push, but hell, if it’s not driving me crazy. I don’t know how to make it right.
Soon, we’re back at the safe house after another long night, the sweat and perfume of the mission still clinging to us. We both smell like wine and wealth.
Maisie heads straight to her room, her footsteps light but determined. She doesn’t even look at me. Suddenly, her loose hair doesn’t seem so voluminous, just unkempt, falling flatter around her shoulders. I hover near the front door, my hand resting on the frame, torn between following her and giving her the distance she’s made so clear she wants.
“Maisie,” I start, my voice coarse with disuse.
She pauses, her back to me, waiting.
“I just…” I trail off, the words stuck.
I don’t even know what to say. I can’t ask her about our night together, about how she wants me to behave now. I can’t ask her why she’s been so cold when I already know the answer. I can’t ask her why she regrets having slept with me. I shouldn’t ask questions I already know the answers to.
“I’m here,” I find myself saying eventually. “If you need me. I’m here.”
Her face doesn’t change. She doesn’t respond, just walks away, disappearing into her room and shutting the door softly behind her.
I lean against the doorframe, running a hand through my hair, huffing out a breath. I need to get out of this suit. The heat outside seeps into the condo, the humidity wrapping around me like a vice. It feels like the world’s closing in, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t know how to fix it.
We have to keep going like this—week after week, mission after mission. The information we’re feeding back to Rosecreek is invaluable. They have important intel now that will help us take down the Haverwood pack for good and save hundreds of lives.
And it’s not like we’re not good at this. We’re flawless when we’re together in front of others, the perfect pair. Who knew Maisie had it in her? Certainly not me.
But in the quiet of our reality, away from the glamorous nights and the alcohol and gold-leaf-covered desserts, I want to tear my way through her door.
Then again, even that wouldn’t bring me any closer to her.
Maybe I’m delusional, but I swear I catch her looking at me sometimes when she thinks I’m not watching. There’s something in her eyes, a flicker of the Maisie I used to know—the one who smiled at me without reservation, who trusted me. The Maisie I hardly got a chance to meet before I screwed it up.
But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that same guarded look she’s worn since the night I held her so tight it clearly broke her.
I dream of her every night. In my dreams, she morphs into Tessa, throwing things at me, screaming, beating her fists against my chest, slurring as she topples toward the staircase.
In some dreams, she remains as Maisie. Those are the worst nights.
The haze of summer blurs the lines between what’s real and what’s an act, but if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that I’ll never have her to keep. I guess I’ll have to make my peace with that somehow.