Chapter 2 The Iron Maiden #2
Morrison is quiet for three seconds. "Get her off Santorini. Tonight."
"No."
"Kaz—"
"Article Seven." My voice comes out wrong—too deep, too rough, still carrying the register of my true form. "She stood her ground. She didn't run when wisdom demanded it. She chose to fight instead of look away. She's tied her honor to this whether she knows it or not."
"That's gladiator code. You're not in the pits anymore."
"The code doesn't stop applying because the arena changed shape." I lean back. The chair creaks dangerously. "She's staying. I'm protecting her. And if the Syndicate wants her, they go through me."
"You can't hold the shift under combat stress. Not if it comes to a fight."
"I'll manage."
"Kaz." The professional edge drops from her voice. "If you shift in front of her, you'll scare her away. You'll have broken cover and lost her trust. That's not a position you want to be in."
What I want. The word cracks open something I've kept sealed for years.
What I want is to carry her somewhere safe and stand guard until the world learns not to threaten what's mine. What I want is to drop this disguise and show her who I am and have her look at me the way she looked at my scars—curious instead of afraid.
What I want hasn't mattered in ninety-two years. No reason to start now.
"I'll handle it," I say, and end the call.
The facility hums. Ventilation. Water in the pipes. The distant, mechanical heartbeat of a building designed to hide things that shouldn't exist on this planet.
I should do a perimeter check. Review the security feeds. Run tactical scenarios. A hundred responsible, professional tasks.
Instead, I pull up the villa's exterior cameras.
She's in the outdoor shower.
The angle is discreet—installed for security, positioned high.
Frosted glass obscures everything below the collarbones.
But the steam rises around her in the golden evening light, and I can see the line of her throat tipped back, water running through her hair, the way her shoulders drop as tension she's been carrying for months finally lets go.
She doesn't know she's safe. Doesn't know there's a facility beneath her feet, or an alien watching her from underground, or an assassin closing in from the north.
She thinks she's alone in a beautiful place, stealing one unguarded moment, and the vulnerability of it hits me somewhere I thought I'd armored over decades ago.
My breathing changes. Not from the shift this time—from something older, simpler, more dangerous. The recognition of a body I want to learn with hands I don't trust. The specific ache of watching someone be soft in a world that's been nothing but hard.
On screen, she turns off the water. Reaches for a towel. Wraps it around herself and pads back into the villa, leaving wet footprints on stone that's still warm from the day.
She goes to the bed. My bed. Picks up a pillow.
Buries her face in it. Breathes in.
The feed has no audio, but I don't need it. I know what she's smelling. The pheromone signature my species produces—the scent that marks territory and signals intent and follows me no matter what shape I wear.
She's breathing me in. In my bed. With wet hair and bare skin and that towel the only thing between her body and my sheets.
Heat floods through me in a wave that has nothing to do with combat readiness.
My skin prickles, oversensitized, every nerve ending lit up like the shift is trying to break through from sheer want.
The ache settles low in my gut—heavy, specific, undeniable.
Five years of discipline and it takes one woman holding my pillow to her face to unravel all of it.
She sets the pillow down. Lies back on the bed, staring up at the canopy. Her hair dries in waves around her face. She looks peaceful. Safe.
Mine.
I close the feed before the word can take root.
The alert comes through ten minutes later.
SECURITY NOTICE: Individual matching Zeno Christopoulos profile detected at Santorini Airport. Arrival confirmed. Current location: rental car agency.
He landed twenty minutes ago. Probably reviewing his intelligence right now, sipping coffee, planning his approach. A professional doesn't rush. He'll do reconnaissance, map the terrain, find his angle.
Three hours. Four if I'm lucky.
Enough time for dinner. Enough time to appear normal. Enough time to ensure Edith has no idea someone is coming for her while I calculate kill zones and weapon placements around a table set for two.
My reflection catches in the dark screen. The eyes staring back are wrong—too dark, amber drowned in black, the predator looking out from behind the mask.
Good.
The assassin thinks he's hunting a frightened woman who reported corporate fraud. An easy job. A civilian with no backup, no protection, no one watching.
He has no idea what's waiting for him on this rock.
I flex my hands. Let the claws slide out just enough to feel the relief of not crushing them back. A small indulgence. The only one I'll allow myself tonight.
The other indulgence—the woman upstairs, the scent of her skin, the image I can't burn from my memory of her body tipping back under the water—that one stays locked behind every wall I have.
For now.
I pull up the tactical maps and start planning how to keep Edith Kendrick alive.
The professional in me says: assess the threat, fortify the perimeter, neutralize the operative.
The gladiator says something simpler: anyone who touches her bleeds.
For the first time in five years, I agree with the gladiator.