Page 93 of The Gentleman

“Quick reality check.” Landon’s tone was airy, but his stare could strip paint. “If my sister comes back with even a bruise, you and I are going to have a very short, very one-sided conversation.”

Leo kept his eyes on Kat. “Bruises won’t even register on her radar.”

“Good. Then she won’t mind you bleeding in her place.” Landon’s grip grew painful. “I’m not joking,” he murmured. “I bury threats—it’s a family thing.”

Thunder boomed off the peaks.

Landon’s jaw flexed. “She presents as unbreakable. But I’ve seen what it costs her to pretend. And what it looks like when she finally can’t. So no screw ups. I mean it.”

Leo shifted, prying Landon’s fingers free.Knuckles popped.“Anyone who comes for her goes through me.”

A beat passed—two wolves measuring teeth—before Landon’s mouth hit a thin smile. “Fair warning delivered.” He tapped Leo’s chest once and walked off, rain plastering his hair to his skull.

Well. That was warm and fuzzy.

Breathing in the ozone-charged air, Leo joined Kat and ran his thumb across the soft skin at the back of her neck. “You good? Transport’s ready.”

She turned, the storm reflected in her eyes. “Yeah. Just—getting my head right.” Her gaze swept the ridge line—the battlefield calculus that had kept them both breathing this long.

Raindrops caught in her dark hair like flecks of silver. The urge to pull her close was a steady thrum beneath his ribs. But not yet.

Lightning strobed.

There would be time—after.

He would make damn sure of it.

40

Kat leanedagainst the railing of the fishing boat, wind snapping through her short hair. The moon broke through the clouds, bathing the boat in quicksilver—then vanished behind a racing front.

This wasn’t just about clearing her name.

It was about reclaiming the part of herself MI6 had tried to erase.

The operative.

The woman who’d bled for her country and been betrayed, anyway.

Salt spray stung her skin as the vessel plunged through the choppy water, each wave thudding through the deck beneath her boots.

In the wheelhouse above, Navarro stood silent at the helm. Only the tight flick of his gaze toward the horizon betrayed concern.

“Storm coming.” His accented English carried over the engine’s growl. “Bad one. We finish business quick, yes?”

Kat gave him a thumbs-up. Brock had found Navarro through channels best left unnamed. The man hadn’t blinkedat the heavily armed group or their interest in the supposedly abandoned cliffs. A fat envelope of cash had secured both his boat and his silence.

Below deck, the team prepped, checking gear and loading magazines. Gage was with them, but Kat had stayed topside, letting the icy wind cut through her jacket as the cliffs loomed closer.

The weight of her Glock on her hip was a comfort. The bruise on her jaw had faded to a dull yellow, but the memory of Jane’s apartment—the copper smell of blood, the stillness—was sharp as ever. She should have been there sooner.

Another wave slammed the bow, sending icy spray over the railing. Cold water soaked her skin, but Kat didn’t flinch.

The cold kept her sharp. Better than adrenaline. Or fear.

Footsteps creaked behind her. The tread was familiar.

Leonid.

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