HIS TO DESTROY

. A black sedan with false plates, one guard inside, and enough ac

ina Marín's signal last pinged. It took less than an hour for the news to reach Lucien. She was dead, or so they claimed, but he didn't believe any of it. Not for a second. The guards assigned to her that morning were in

eanly, too cleanly. She hadn't been killed. She had been taken, or she had run. And whichever b*st*rd thought they could put their filthy hands on her without consequence would bleed for it. He to

idn't ask questions and everything felt foreign enough to disappear into. She wore a scarf that covered most of her hair, her coat heavy, and

now she didn't even bother introducing herself. Her mission was clear. He was somewhere in this country. Hidden beneath layers of diplomatic lies and blacksite protections, a man the world thought long dead kept breathing because he was too valuable to kill and too dangerous t

way to know if Lucien was looking for her. But in her bones, she felt him. Of course he was. He was the kind of man who never let go-not of

days. Hadn't allowed herself to. Crying wasted time. But tonight-tonight she completely let her guard down. She reached into the lining of her coat and pulled out a photo. It was small, worn, and grainy. A Polaroid. It portrayed Lucien. Sitting on the edge of the estate's fountain. Shirt open. Eyes

nked. She pressed her lips together. Her eyes stung. And then, soft and slow, a single tear slipped down her cheek. "I'm comi

moving again. But tonight