Page 108 of Mission Shift

I slammed my drink down onto the bar.

“Malinov just tossed the knife to one of his men.” Nik’s breath caught. “Shit, they’re doing it.”

I braced myself.

“He’s got her by the hair—”

I gripped the glass.

“Daria’s struggling—”

My fingers tightened.

“He slit her throat!”

The glass shattered.

Whiskey and shards exploded over my fist, but the pain didn’t register. Blood roared in my ears.

Nik cursed. “Braxton. Get your fucking head on straight.”

I exhaled hard, shaking the liquid from my fingers. I hadn’t cut myself, but the bartender was staring. A few guests nearby turned their heads.

Nik’s voice dropped to a snarl. “I see you on the feed. Get your shit together. Order another drink. Walk away.”

I yanked a napkin off the bar, dabbing my fingers as I flagged the bartender with my other hand. “Another double of Gentleman Jack.” Despite the whirlwind of rage inside me, my voice came out calm.

The bartender nodded, reaching for a fresh glass.

Nik growled, “You blow your cover, we lose her. Play the part.”

I rolled my neck, shoving every bit of my fury down, turning it into something cold. “I know.”

Another glass landed in front of me. I picked it up and took a slow sip as the bartender studied me and wiped away the mess.

Then I turned, moving toward the far end of the ballroom—away from the bar, away from all the watchful eyes.

Nik kept talking. “Malinov’s taking Daria upstairs.”

I swirled the whiskey. “Is she holding it together?”

Nik’s answer was quiet. “She’s ice.”

Good.

But inside, she had to be bleeding.

Nik was seeing the blank mask she wore, the cold detachment that kept her standing when most people would have collapsed under the stress. But I’d seen what was beneath it.

Daria wasn’t just ice—she was fire too. She would burn for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. She carried a quiet, unseen goodness, the kind that refused to be extinguished nomatter how much darkness tried to swallow it. It was still there, even after men like her father and Malinov had spent decades trying to snuff it out. And as for all the blood on her hands, I knew—knew—she had never wanted it there.

She hadn’t been born a killer. She’d been made into one.

Forced into the Kremlin’s machine, raised under her father’s brutal rule, taught that love was a weakness and that her only loyalty was to the men who controlled her. Every lesson had been beaten into her. Every moment of softness was something she’d had to carve out of herself just to survive. And despite all of it, she had still chosen to protect the innocent. She had still risked her life for the Ukrainian people. For me.

And now, she was paying for it.

I gritted my teeth, gripping the glass hard enough that my knuckles ached from trying not to shatter this glass too. I would burn this fucking mansion to the ground before I let Malinov take one more piece of her soul.

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