Page 24 of Code Name: Reaper
“Yes. No.Fuck.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t know what you are.”
The property’s gates came into view, wrought-iron barriers that had protected the Trace family’s privacy for generations. The familiar sight should have brought relief, but Amaryllis tensed up beside me as we passed through the entrance.
“Oh my God.” She stared up at the Georgian manor house that dominated the landscape ahead. “This is where you’ve been working?”
“Home sweet home.” I watched her take in every detail of the scale of the wealth on display. “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine.” But she was gripping the door handle like she was preparing to bolt.
I studied her as we approached the house’s entrance. Her stiff posture was obvious, as was the way her breathing had become shallow and controlled. This wasn’t discomfort. This was something deeper, more visceral.
She held herself like a cornered animal calculating escape routes. Her eyes darted from window to window, as if she was cataloging potential exits and threats. Whatever was going on in her head, it had nothing to do with the manor’s grandeur and everything to do with something that scared the hell out of her.
I started to ask her about it, then decided not to. I wasn’t her fucking boyfriend. I wasn’t even her friend. She was a pain in the ass whom I’d had to go rescue in Berlin, and had she even thanked me? Hell no, she’d bitched at me for interfering. If it weren’t for me, she’d probably be dead. The FSB would’ve found her and killed her, and then what would happen? She probably would’ve haunted me from the grave until I gave in and looked for Mercury on my own. Schmuck that I was.
“I’d love to know what you’re thinking about.”
The tone was casual, but I sensed the undercurrent—curiosity mixed with wariness, like she was testing the waters.
“The hell, you do,” I snapped.
Before she could say anything else, repeat she hated that she’d wanted the kiss between us—in the same way I did—I gave her a taste of her own medicine. “Don’t,” I said like she had to me in Germany.
I wouldn’t allow myself to look at her. I was too afraid of what I’d see. Anger, hurt, and desire I couldn’t allow myself to care about.
By the time we reached the front door, the metaphorical distance between us was miles wide. I couldn’t wait to escape, to get away from her and return to the familiar territory the mansion represented. Safety, routine, and work I understood. She represented chaos and complications I wasn’t equipped to handle.
But then I noticed her discomfort had gotten worse. More than that. I could swear she wanted to bolt. Whatever was triggering her reaction to this place, she was struggling, and despite everything, I couldn’t walk away from that. So instead of looking for my brother to give him a piece of my mind, I stuck around and made introductions.
The entryway was typical of Georgian architecture—soaring ceilings, elaborate crown molding, furniture that cost more than most people made in a year. Amaryllis took it in with the same look she’d worn when facing down Russian operatives.
“Reaper!” I heard a familiar call fill the space, then saw the woman who said it. “Well, I’ll be damned. You actually brought her here in one piece.”
“Wren Whittaker. Coalition intelligence coordinator. Former NSA, so you two speak the same language. Wren, meet Charity Beaudoin—Amaryllis.”
When Wren stepped forward with her arms open for a hug, I watched Amaryllis bristle. Wren, to her credit, read the signs and switched to extending her hand instead.
“I’ve heard a lot about your work.” Amaryllis’ voice sounded weaker than what I was used to. Admittedly, Wren was bigger than life.
“All good, I hope.” Her smile was genuine, warm in a way that reminded me why everyone on the team gravitated toward her. “Nice to have another NSA-er on the team. You know, the experts.” Wren winked.
I saw some of the rigidity leave Amaryllis’s shoulders at the mention of their shared experience. The validation of being called an expert by someone of Wren’s reputation seemed to ground her.
Before she could respond, sounds echoed from the main sitting area.
“Amaryllis?” Delfino’s voice came from across the room. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“There she is,” Hornet called out, rushing to greet her too.
“Thank God you’re safe.” Delfino embraced her. “Wren reported the NSA presumed you were dead. Then, when Reaper got your message, we knew you were in deep trouble.”
“Deeper than I realized at the time. Good to see you, Delfino.” I watched as another transformation took place. Amaryllis’s defensive walls didn’t merely lower—they crumbled. The hug between the two women was as warm and natural as if they’d known each other their whole lives.
“Welcome.” Hornet stepped up and hugged her. “When Reaper read your intel about Prism, all I could think was you’re as badass as Delfino and I thought you were from the day we met you.”
Her cheeks flushed with his praise. “Or seriously stupid. Jury’s still out.”
Delfino took Amaryllis’ hand in hers. “We were so worried.”
