Page 17 of Rogue Hope
The transition from consciousness to sleep happened gradually. Dreams and reality blended seamlessly—he was in Paris again, then Hope Landing, then somewhere in between, always with Zara just beyond reach.
A subtle change in air pressure was his first indication that something had shifted.
Every instinct screamed danger, but he resisted the urge to move. Better to gather information first, to understand the threat before responding.
The soft click of metal against metal—unmistakable in its implications—made the decision for him.
Weapon being readied. Immediate threat.
He opened his eyes, his body remaining perfectly still as his vision adjusted to the dim light. The silhouette standing five feet away was immediately recognizable despite the years and circumstances.
Zara.
She stood in a perfect shooter’s stance, both hands wrapped around a Glock that aimed at his heart. Her expression was impossible to read in the shadows, but her posture communicated everything he needed to know—absolute control, deadly capability.
“Hello, Finn,” she said, her voice steady and cold. “You look remarkably alive for a dead man.”
The Glock never wavered, its barrel a black hole that promised swift judgment for the slightest wrong move.
“Give me one reason,” she continued, “why I shouldn’t put a bullet through your heart right now.”
11
The ghostin her living room had a face Zara had memorized in dreams and nightmares alike.
She stared at Finn Novak, cataloging the changes seven years had carved into him. The ugly bruise beneath his eye was fresh, obviously. So whatever he was up to, it wasn’t good. New lines bracketed his eyes—deeper, more pronounced than memory allowed. A scar, thin and white, bisected his left eyebrow. His frame carried additional muscle, distributed with the fluid grace of someone who lived in constant motion.
Alive. Breathing. Real.
Her finger trembled against the trigger—not from fear but from the violent collision of muscle memory and moral restraint. The shot pattern that would incapacitate without killing, while something darker whispered how simple it would be to adjust two inches left and end him permanently. She’d killed before—always sanctioned—but never with the personal rage that now threatened to override years of ethical conditioning, and her moral compass.
What terrified her wasn’t how easy it would be to pull the trigger, but how much she wanted to. Seven years of disciplined compartmentalization threatened to shatter as she recognizedthe man whose death she’d mourned, whose betrayal she’d buried, whose absence had redefined her. The Glock remained steady even as her certainties crumbled.
The ghost in her living room had a heartbeat. Despite everything he’d done, some traitorous part of her was relieved to see it.
His hands stayed visible on his thighs—acknowledging the threat while showing no fear. His gaze shifted from her face to the weapon and back again with infuriating calm.
She stared him down. “I want an answer, Finn. Now.”
That half-smile appeared—the one from Paris. “You look good, Zara. Better than good.”
“And you look awful.” She jutted her chin at his eye. “Ten seconds. Explain why you’re here before my team busts in.”
“You haven’t called them yet.” Statement, not question.
She rolled her eyes. “Not even you could be stupid enough to try manipulating me again.” The bitterness surprised even her, escaping before she could contain it. No. She hadn’t called them. Yet.
Years of carefully constructed walls hadn’t prepared her for this moment. She’d imagined finding him alive countless times during those first dark months—fantasies where she’d be calm, collected, immune to his presence. Now reality mocked those delusions.
His scent—that distinctive blend of cedar and something uniquely him—triggered sense memories she’d thought she successfully buried. The muscle beneath her eye twitched with suppressed emotion while her mind cataloged contingency plans.
His eyes locked with hers, all pretense gone. “What I did to you was unforgivable. One hundred percent. I’ll have to live with that the rest of my life. But after Paris, I changed. I—” He paused, shaking his head. “Never mind. The important thing is,I turned on Cipher. I’ve been hunting him ever since, destroying what I could of his network.”
The casual mention of Paris cut deep. “Playing hero now? Career change from thief and manipulator?” She kept her voice flat, disguising how her stomach churned with competing instincts—to shoot him, to interrogate him, to demand answers for every sleepless night she’d endured.
“Never claimed to be a hero. But yeah, I’ve changed. What happened in Paris—what I did to you—forced me to confront truths I’d been avoiding.”
A humorless laugh nearly escaped her lips. How convenient his moral awakening had come after using her access codes to steal classified intelligence. After leaving her unconscious in that hotel room. After letting her believe he’d died in that explosion while he reinvented himself as—what? Some vigilante hero?
