Page 112 of Mission Shift

“Listen to me,” he hissed. “You can kill me later. Right now, both of our lives depend on getting out of this party alive. I’m your only option.”

I yanked free and took a step back, the blade still raised. The gall he had to say that!

“You expect me to believe a damn word that comes out of your mouth?” My grip tightened around the handle, my knuckles turning white. “You—of all people?”

“I never meant for this to happen,” he said, holding his arms down at his sides, palms open, like he was trying not to spook a cornered animal. Shrewd of him, because that was exactly what I was. “I swear to you, Daria, I had no idea Nik was tracking us—no clue he’d make a trade to hand you over to the very men who would harm you.”

“Yeah, well, I could’ve told you that would happen if you had been the least bit honest with me. But no. You’re a lying sack of shit, just like all of them,” I snarled, trying to keep the volume of my voice in check.

“No,” Braxton said quickly, shaking his head. “I never lied to y—”

“Oh, no,” I snapped, not letting him finish whatever he was about to say. “Don’t you fucking think for a second that I’m going to take that sanctimonious bullshit from you! Not telling me you had ties to the Volkovi Notchi—Nikolai fucking Volkov—is a lie by omission. And you damn well know it.”

I took a step forward, the blade flashing as it caught the chandelier’s glow. “Lies of omission are the worst kind of lies, Braxton. They’re manipulative, calculated. You sat there, listening to me pour my guts out, and you let me trust you. God, I was stupid.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. That’s not it at all. I didn’t even know who you really were at first. I was just—” He paused, shooting a nervous glance toward the door. “I was just trying to survive, same as you.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Survive?” My stomach twisted with fury. “You have no idea what survival means.” I took another step forward, closing the space between us. “And you have no idea what I had to endure afteryougot me caught.”

His face darkened, guilt flashing in his eyes for a split second before he reined it in. “Since the moment we met, we’ve been running for our lives,” he hissed, leaning in toward me. “Ididn’t have time to explain. Hell, I barely had time to think. One minute you were a Russian lieutenant colonel, then a double agent working for Ukraine, then a goddamn mafia boss’s daughter—”

I lunged, forcing him to back up.

“You’re just like my father,” I spat, venomous accusation seeping into every word. “You’re entangled with the same violent scum—drug traffickers, arms dealers, murderers. You act like you’re better than them, but you’re not. You are one of Nikolai Volkov’s closest associates. He’s a man who orchestrated the murder of his own mother, father, and aunt just to take control of the Volkovi Notchi. Do you even know the kind of people you work with?”

“Stop,” Braxton snapped. “Just—calm down.”

And then he crossed his arms over his chest as if we had all day to stand here and argue. His composure made me want to slice my frustration out on him.

“You can hate me. You can want me dead. I get it,” he said. “I deserve it. But right now, you need to listen. You know me being here puts my life on the line. I didn’t come here to hurt you—I came here to get you the hell out.”

I stared at him, my chest heaving, the knife still poised to attack.

“I didn’t tell you about Nikolai, because I knew you hated the Volkovs. And my relationship with him—it’s not what you think it is. It’s complicated. And if I had told you the truth, would you have trusted me? Or would you have left me to die in that prison?”

I chewed on my bottom lip.

His point was valid. I would have left him.

But it didn’t matter.

“You think showing up here torescue the damsel in distressexcuses what you did?” I asked, circling him, the silk of my gownwhispering against the marble floor. “You think I give a damn about your reasons?”

His chest rose, fell. “No.”

I smiled, slow and cruel. “Good. Because you shouldn’t.”

I retightened my grip on the knife.

“You’re a liar,” I said, stalking him like a predator. “And you know what’s worse than a liar, Braxton?” I growled. “A coward who thinks withholding the truth is somehow more noble than telling the lie outright.”

His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

Smart man.

I kept the knife raised, my heart pounding out a brutal rhythm against my ribs. I wanted to gut him. I wanted to see him bleed. What I didn’t want was to hear him try to justify the unjustifiable—to explain how the hours of agony, the searing pain, and the humiliation I’d endured were somehow worth it.

I huffed out a breath. How could I let him stand there and continue breathing after he’d handed me over to monsters? How could he look me in the eye and pretend there was an explanation—any explanation—that could make this anything but a betrayal worse than death?

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