Page 34 of The Gentleman

She couldn’t help it—she smiled again. Gage. Loyal, infuriating, and always ready to burn the world down for her.

She typed quickly.

I’m safe. Will contact you tomorrow.

She turned the phone off and braced herself against the sink, head hanging between her shoulders.

The pressure built like a held breath behind her ribs.

It wasn’t just about her anymore. Her brother was worried sick. Brock was putting his network at risk to help her. And Leonid? He had dropped everything, flown across the North Sea in the middle of the night on nothing more than half a message.

She raised her head and met her own gaze in the mirror. Here, in his space, the distance between them was more permeable.

Surrounded by his things, knowing he was just outside the door, she felt both more exposed—and more protected—than she had in years.

Her eyes traveled to her hair. The same hair visible in the photo now circulating across the news. The hairstyle that every security camera in London would recognize in an instant.

She opened the bathroom cabinet. Razors. Cologne. First aid supplies arranged with military precision.

Nail scissors.

Small but lethal. She lifted them, testing their weight—absurdly delicate instruments for such a definitive act.

She could still stop. Put them down. Walk out. Ask Leonid for help. Ask anyone.

But she’d survived this long by acting, not asking.

A memory flared—her first undercover assignment. A Paris hotel bathroom just like this one, different hair, different name but the same tight knot of anticipation in her chest.

No way back.

Her breath left her in a whisper as she tested the blade against her thumb.

Sharp enough.

“Fugitive fashion,” she muttered. “Coming to runways this season.”

She gripped a section of hair, measured it out, and raised the scissors.

No going back after this cut—not from the manhunt, not the mission. And not from the man who, without even trying, had already changed everything.

16

Leo checked his watch.

Nineteen minutes.

Still no sign of her.

The bathroom door remained firmly shut.

His right leg bounced against the hardwood, heel keeping time with his mounting unease.

So much had happened. Had he missed something? Missed a wound, a crack she’d hidden too well?

His knuckles rapped against the door before his brain had fully committed to the action. “Kat. You okay in there?”

“Uh-huh.” Her voice wavered. Uncertain.

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