Chapter 8
Katerina
The mountains fall away beneath us in slow, rolling waves of gray and white. From this height, they look harmless — like something painted.
Hawk pilots without wasted movement. One hand steady on the cyclic, the other adjusting with precise control. His posture is relaxed in a way that only comes from experience.
He didn’t have to do this. He knows it. I know it.
He deleted the directive. I watched him. Men like him don’t disobey easily.
The headset presses lightly against my ears. The hum of the engine vibrates through my ribs, through the metal floor beneath my boots.
Temporary clothing. Temporary shelter. Temporary alliance. Nothing about this feels temporary anymore.
“You’re quiet,” his voice cuts through the headset.
I turn slightly in the seat.
“I’m calculating.”
“That’s reassuring.”
His tone is dry.
“You went against your commander,” I say.
“Yes.”
“For someone you don’t trust.”
“Yes.”
I study the side of his face. The strong line of his jaw. The calm in his expression.
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He banks slightly to avoid a ridge. The city begins to appear in the distance — a faint suggestion of structures against the morning light.
“Because if you were compromised,” he says at last, “they wouldn’t have forced the elevator.”
My breath stills.
“They would have let you finish,” he continues. “Quietly.”
He’s right. That was the variable. The forced recall. The interruption. He saw it.
“You’re not the problem,” he says.
The words hit harder than I expect.
“You’re the disruption.”
The rotor blades cut through air in steady rhythm. He chose me because I’m useful. That should be the only reason that matters. So why does my pulse shift when he says it like that?
“You assume I’m on the right side,” I say.
“You wouldn’t have left Russia if you weren’t.”
The cockpit feels smaller.
“I didn’t leave for patriotism.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I meant,” he says evenly, “you left because you were done being owned.”
The words land like a blade sliding clean through silk. I don’t answer. Because he’s closer to the truth than he understands.
Below us, the terrain shifts from forest to roadway. Civilization returns in layers.
“You don’t know what this costs,” I say quietly.
“Everything costs,” he replies.
“That’s not what I meant.”
He glances at me briefly. Just long enough.
“You think I chose you because of leverage,” he says.
“Didn’t you?”
He considers that.
“No.”
The simplicity of it unsettles me.
“Then why?” I ask.
The helicopter steadies as we clear the last ridge.
“Because,” he says, voice low through the headset, “I don’t like watching predators close in.”
My fingers tighten in my lap. He means the ballroom. The elevator. The pack. Or maybe he means something else.
“You think I can’t handle them,” I say.
“I think you’ve handled them alone long enough.”
That statement hits me somewhere deep. It’s uncomfortable to admit. The skyline of Cupid City sharpens ahead of us.
“I don’t need protection,” I say automatically.
“That’s not what I’m offering.”
I turn fully toward him now.
“Then what are you offering?”
He adjusts altitude, bringing us lower.
“Choice.”
The word steals the air from my lungs.
Choice.
No one offered that during training. No one offered that during assignments. No one offered that during negotiation with the Americans.
Choice implies autonomy. Choice implies alignment.
“You don’t know what I’ll choose,” I say.
“I don’t,” he agrees.
“But I’d rather stand next to you when you do.”
The city rushes closer beneath us. Buildings rise. Traffic threads. The world resumes. Something inside my carefully constructed defenses shifts. Not because he seduced me.
Not because he pressed. Because he saw. And still came back.
“You’re making this personal,” I say.
“It already is.”
The helicopter begins its descent toward a discreet rooftop landing pad several blocks from the gala venue.
My mission waits below. The handoff. The confirmation.
The leverage.
And now … him.
“You understand,” I say carefully, “that once we land, this doesn’t stay contained.”
“I understand.”
“They will escalate.”
“I expect them to.”
“And if I’m not what you think I am?”
He meets my eyes fully this time.
Then answers without hesitation.
“Then I adjust.”
The confidence in that should alarm me. Instead, it steadies me.
The skids hover just above the rooftop. Wind whips against metal and fabric. We are seconds from reinsertion.
For the first time since I agreed to this operation, I don’t feel alone. And that may be the most dangerous variable of all.
The rooftop rushes up beneath us.
Wind lashes across the skids as Hawk steadies the descent. The city roars below — distant sirens, traffic, morning noise folding into itself.
This is where I step back into my role of the controlled, untouchable, precise operator.
The rotor still spins overhead, chopping the air into violent rhythm.
Hawk runs through shutdown protocol with efficient movements. His focus is outward — perimeter, sight lines, approach vectors.
He is already thinking three moves ahead. He chose this.
He chose me. The weight of that settles inside me harder than the altitude shift. I reach up and remove the headset. He does the same.
“I’ll sweep the access stairwell first,” he says, already shifting into operational mode.
He starts to unbuckle. I put my hand over his. He freezes. The contact is small, but intentional.
Hawk looks at me — sharp, assessing.
“I know you don’t trust me,” I say over the rotor wash.
His jaw tightens slightly.
“That hasn’t changed.”
“I know.”
Wind pulls at my borrowed jacket.
“I won’t forget that you came back,” I continue. “You didn’t have to.”
His eyes search mine for angle. There isn’t one.
“Thank you,” I say.
The words feel foreign on my tongue. I don’t use them often. He studies me hard. But there’s something in his expression that softens.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Before my discipline can reassemble itself, I lean forward and close the distance. I kiss him. My hand slides up to his jaw — the same place he touched mine earlier.
Hawk’s body goes still for one stunned heartbeat. Then, he responds. His hand comes up instinctively, gripping my waist with firm certainty. The kiss deepens — not reckless, not consuming — but undeniable.
Heat flashes through me. The moment and feeling are real. This is not a scripted scene. For once, something in my crazy life is authentic.
This feeling I have is something else. And that realization jolts through me as sharply as the contact itself.
I pull back first, noticing my breathing is uneven. His hand remains at my waist a fraction longer than necessary before he releases it.
“That wasn’t tactical,” he says, voice rougher than before.
“No.”
The rotor begins to slow.
“You’re complicating things,” he adds.
“Everything worth doing is complicated.”
A faint edge of something almost like a smile touches his mouth. Then it disappears. He shifts back into operational posture instantly.
“Stay behind me,” he says.
I reach for the door latch.
“We both know I won’t.”
He looks at me again — not annoyed but aware.
“Then don’t get ahead of me.”
I open the door.
Cold city air rushes in. The mission waits below. So does danger. And now … so does something neither of us planned.
I step out of the helicopter without looking back. Because if I do, I might hesitate. And hesitation is the one luxury I’ve never been allowed.