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Mara's file said she'd been dead for ten years.
She was walking past security anyway, Kade's hand at the small of her back, her smile locked in place like she'd been born wearing it. The guard who'd scanned their IDs was still staring at his screen. His partner waved them through.
Kade leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "We should leave."
"We just got here."
"Your file—"
"Is wrong." She kept her voice light, turned her head so her lips almost brushed his jaw. To anyone watching, it looked like flirting. "They'll kick it up the chain. We've got maybe twenty minutes before someone actually reads it."
"That's not enough time."
"Then we work fast."
The gala hall opened up in front of them, all white marble and floating light panels that shifted from gold to pale blue. The crowd moved like a single organism, smooth and expensive. Mara had seen plenty of rich people in her clinic, usually bleeding. This was different. Here they didn't bleed. They smiled and held champagne flutes and pretended the lower city didn't exist.
She hated it already.
Kade's hand was still on her back. His fingers were tense. She could feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of the dress Juno had stolen for her. It was too tight and too short and she felt like an idiot, but she looked the part. That was the point.
"Oryx Dominion executives are on the third tier," she said quietly. "East side. We need access to their private network, which means we need someone's wristband."
"You want me to steal from a corporate exec at his own party."
"I want you to smile and look rich while I do it."
Kade's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "You're good at this."
"I've had practice."
She'd been lying her whole life. To clinic patients who asked if the implant would hold. To her brother when he asked if she was eating enough. To herself, every time she told herself she'd get him out next month. Just one more job. One more payout.
This was just one more lie.
They moved through the crowd. Mara kept her chin up, her stride easy. Kade stayed close, and she had to admit he sold it. The suit Juno had pulled fit him like it'd been tailored yesterday. His hair was still too long, and there was a scar along his jaw that no amount of expensive grooming could hide, but somehow that made it better. He looked dangerous. Controlled. Like money that didn't need to explain itself.
She wondered if he'd always looked like that, or if it was the weapon underneath trying to surface.
A server passed with a tray of champagne. Kade took two glasses and handed her one. Their fingers brushed. The contact lasted half a second, but her skin prickled where he'd touched her.
"Drink it slow," he said.
"I know how to drink champagne."
"I mean your hands are shaking."
She looked down. He was right. She curled her fingers tighter around the glass and made herself breathe.
"I'm fine."
"Mara—"
"I said I'm fine."
He didn't push. That was one thing she liked about him. He knew when to shut up.
The music shifted. A live band on the upper tier, something slow and old-world that made her think of movies she'd seen as a kid, back when her mom was still alive and they'd had a screen that worked. People were moving toward the center of the floor, pairing off.
"We should dance," Kade said.
She stared at him. "What?"
"You said we need to blend in. Everyone's dancing."
"I don't dance."
"Neither do I."
"Then why—"
He set his glass down on a passing server's tray and took hers, too. Then he caught her hand and pulled her toward the floor.
"Kade—"
"Trust me."
She didn't. She didn't trust anyone. But she followed him anyway because the alternative was standing alone at the edge of the room like a target, and she'd already burned through most of her luck tonight.
The floor was crowded, bodies moving in slow circles under the lights. Kade's hand settled on her waist. His other hand caught hers, his grip firm and warm. She put her free hand on his shoulder and felt the muscle underneath the jacket, tense and coiled.
"You said you don't dance," she muttered.
"I lied."
He moved, and she followed without thinking. He was good. Too good. The kind of good that came from training, from muscle memory older than whatever they'd done to his head.
She tried not to think about what else he might remember without knowing it.
"You're staring," he said.
She blinked. "I'm thinking."
"About?"
"Whether you killed people at parties like this."
His hand tightened on her waist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel.
"Probably," he said.
She should've been scared. Maybe she was. But fear and anger had been tangled up in her chest for so long she couldn't tell them apart anymore, and right now all she felt was the heat of his hand and the way he was looking at her like she was the only real thing in the room.
"Does it bother you?" he asked.
She thought about it. About the people she'd patched up in her clinic who'd probably gone out and done worse. About the corpo security who'd dragged her brother away and smiled while they did it. About her mom, dead in a lab, and the man in front of her who knew her passcode.
"No," she said.
His eyes were dark, unreadable. "It should."
"A lot of things should bother me."
The music swelled. He pulled her closer, and she let him. Her chest brushed his. She could feel his heartbeat, fast and uneven, and underneath it the faint hum of the core wired to his ribs. The timer counting down.
She'd tried not to think about that. About what happened when it hit zero.
"How much time do you have left?" she asked.
He didn't pretend not to understand. "Four days. Maybe five."
"And if we can't get it out?"
"Then it doesn't matter."
Her throat tightened. She didn't know why. She barely knew him. He was a job. A way to get answers and enough money to buy Ethan out. That was all.
But his hand was warm on her back, and he was still looking at her like she mattered, and for once she didn't want to think about the past or the timer or what happened next.
"Mara," he said quietly.
"What?"
"If this goes wrong—"
"It won't."
"If it does—"
"Then we'll fix it."
He smiled. It was small and tired and real, and it made something in her chest crack open.
"You don't give up, do you?"
"Not yet."
The song was ending. The crowd shifted, people breaking apart or pulling closer for the next round. Mara started to step back, but Kade's hand stayed on her waist.
"One more," he said.
She should've said no. They were running out of time. But she nodded, and his hand tightened, and the band started up again.
That's when she saw him.
Tall. Sharp suit, sharper eyes. Moving through the crowd like he owned it. He probably did.
Silas Grave.
Mara's pulse kicked. She turned her face into Kade's shoulder, her breath coming short.
"He's here," she whispered.
Kade went still. "Where?"
"Ten o'clock. Don't look."
He didn't. He just kept moving, kept her close, but she could feel the shift in him. The weapon waking up.
"We leave now," he said.
"We can't. He'll see us."
"Mara—"
"Just keep dancing."
Silas was getting closer. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, cutting across the floor. He wasn't looking at them yet, but he would. Any second now.
Kade's jaw was tight. His hand slid up her back, his fingers splayed between her shoulder blades. Anchoring her.
"Whatever happens," he said, "stay behind me."
"Kade—"
Silas stopped three feet away.
He was smiling.
"Good evening," he said, his voice smooth and cold. He looked at Kade, and his smile widened.
"Unit K-9. It's been a long time."