“What are they mapping?” Samuels leaned forward.

  “From what I could gather off the chips I salvaged, population density. Structural weak points. The kind of intel you gather before—” Jameson’s throat went dry.

  “Before you level everything,” Rook finished, her scarred face going pale.

  Jameson nodded. “The Heart is preparing for something, something big.”

  “War?” Samuels asked.

  “Or its aftermath. It wouldn’t be war for us, it would be systematic euthanasia. It would be mass murder.” Jameson turned back to the map, his eyes tracing the boundary between their district and the toxic wasteland beyond. “I want the bomb shelters prepared. All of them. The ones from before the partition still have their lead lining. Priority for children and medical staff.”

  Rook’s sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the room. The bomb shelters were a relic of the time before New Found Haven, concrete bunkers buried deep enough to survive whatever had destroyed the old world. They’d been maintaining them as a last resort, a final sanctuary if the Heart ever decided the Boundary was more trouble than it was worth.

  “You think they’d actually do it?” Rook asked quietly. “Sacrifice an entire ring?”

  “I think Maximus Serel has never let human life stand in the way of control.” Jameson’s voice had gone cold. “And I think we need to be ready for anything.”

  Rook nodded once, already calculating logistics in her head. “I’ll get teams working on the shelters. Water, filters, whatever medical supplies we can spare.”

  “We can’t spare any,” Samuels interjected.

  “We’ll make it work.” Rook’s tone left no room for argument. “What else?”

  “Double the patrols along the northern edge. If they come on foot or in vehicles, that’s where they’ll hit first.” Jameson pointed to the map. “And I want a meeting with the Cardinal rebel leaders. I want to speak with Farrow about the credit situation. If food stops flowing from the Heart completely, we need to know immediately.”

  They continued for another hour, working through contingencies, allocating their dwindling resources. As they spoke, Jameson felt the weight settling heavier on his shoulders. So many lives depending on him making the right calls. So many ways to fail them.

  Rook and Samuels finally moved to the door, readying to carry out orders when Jameson stopped them.

  “There is one more thing.” He paused, tapping his knuckle on the desk’s scarred surface. They would not like this. “In two days, I will be going into the Heart with Jaeger and his men to get Shade out.”

  “You can’t,” Rook blurted, her brow creasing as she shook her head. “We need you here, Ghost. We can’t risk losing you. Let the Daggermouths take care of their people. You need to take care of yours.”

  Jameson stared at her for a long moment, letting her words settle—the divide in them. Their people. Her words held no malicious intent, but they scratched at his mind wrong. “There is no them or us. Not here, not in the Boundary,” he said, his voice stern. “It doesn’t matter if you choose to call yourself a rebel or a Daggermouth, the reality of our situation doesn’t change. We all want the same thing, to live.”

  “Jay…” Samuels started, but he held up his hand to stop him.

  “I’m not asking permission. We need her—I… I need her home. I won’t abandon her, just like I wouldn’t abandon you. I have to at least try. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.”

  The room stayed silent as they both stared back at him, their concerned expressions softening into understanding.

  “If, for some reason, I do not come back—Rook, you will take my place until the rebels elect a new leader. But believe me, I have no intention of dying in the Heart.”

  He watched as the possibility of that responsibility settled on Rook’s shoulders, watched her throat work, her eyes dart to Samuels before she gave one curt nod. They filed out of the room silently, shutting the door behind them as Jameson’s hands splayed out on the desk.

  He leaned his weight onto them, letting his head hang for only a moment before blowing out a long breath and straitening. His hand scrubbed down his face as he moved to the window, pushing aside the metal sheet with the other to look out over the camp.

  Fires burned lower now, the night growing colder. Shadows moved between structures—guards changing shifts, medics making rounds, parents walking crying children who couldn’t sleep from hunger.

  His fingers found the deep scar that ran from collarbone to rib cage, tracing its familiar path over the tattered fabric of his shirt. His first lesson in Heart savagery, delivered by a Veyra officer who’d caught him stealing medicine for his dying sister. The officer had smiled while cutting him, explaining the anatomy lesson as blood soaked through Jameson’s shirt. His sister had died anyway, the medicine he’d finally stolen arriving too late.

  The memory lingered in the front of his mind, often resurfacing even fifteen years later. The image of her perfectly still on her cot when he entered their makeshift home with the antibiotics, the coldness of her skin when he had tried to wake her. He’d stayed with her for days holding her lifeless hand, tears streaming down his face as the last of his family left him alone in this city.

  He had chosen then to become a smuggler, sworn it to her. He couldn’t save her, but he could save others. At the very least, he would try.

  Jameson closed his eyes, listening to the distant sound of someone singing, voice cracking with emotion over the words of that anthem but never faltering. He let the sounds wash over him, let himself feel the fear he couldn’t show the others. Let himself feel the absence of her.

  He would find her. Or she would find her way back to him. Those were the only possibilities he would allow himself to consider. Anything else was unthinkable.

  The song outside grew louder as more voices joined in, a ragged chorus of defiance floating over the Boundary like a prayer. Or maybe, it was a promise.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN YOU DON’T GET TO SAY THAT

  LIRA’S FOOTSTEPS ECHOED THROUGH the empty training hall, each scuff of her heel against marble a small echo in the silence. Dawn had barely breached the horizon, painting the tall windows in washes of pale gold that transformed the austere space into something almost beautiful. She preferred the facility like this—vacant, peaceful, hers alone for the precious hour before the Veyra officers arrived to shatter the solitude with their presence. In fact, it was the only time she was allowed in these training rooms—when no one could see her.

  Her fingers trailed along the polished wood of the weapon racks as she passed, an unconscious habit born from years of coming here to watch her brothers train. Of course, as a woman, she was never allowed to touch one. ‘Females have no place training beside men, Lira,’ her father had said. ‘Your place is behind us, ready to be called on when needed. Not beside, never beside.’

  The memory collected in her mind as the materials glided across her skin. Each blade, each staff, each training weapon she was determined to master now. She would never admit this to anyone, never even say it out loud—but she was envious of the women in the outer rings. That they were trained to protect themselves, that the rebels did not let gender keep you from fighting, from leading.

  Her mask felt heavier this morning, the rose gold pressing against her temples with unusual weight. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep—the hours spent pacing her chambers, mind racing with worry for Greyson, for the tenuous peace that hung by threads between them all. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that today, she was delivering a mask that would pull on those threads.

  Lira shrugged out of her jacket as she dropped her duffel bag and tossed it to the floor. Her fingers slid through her dark strands as she approached the mat, securing it in a ponytail on the back of her head as she slipped off her shoes. She bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the slight give of the padded surface.

  Her muscles remembered her training with Callum even before her mind directed them, body falling into the familiar stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. The first breath came deep and centering, drawing oxygen down to her core as Callum had taught her. The second expanded her rib cage, lifting her posture to achieve perfect alignment. The third—

  “You’re telegraphing your left side.”

  Lira spun toward the voice, instinct driving her hand to a nonexistent weapon at her back. Callum leaned against the doorframe of the entrance casually, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with that insufferable half smile that lived in the corners of his mouth. The copper and gold of his mask caught the dawn light, transforming the metal to living flame.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice emerged sharper than intended, brittle with surprise.

  He straightened, pushing off from the doorframe with all the ease of a man who knew exactly what he did to her.

  “Good morning to you too, Li.” His voice was familiar, infuriating in its warmth.

  Her eyes narrowed behind her mask. “You don’t have clearance for this facility.” A statement, not a question. She knew every name on the access list. Had reviewed it personally after the last security breach. “No badge. No Serel credentials.”

  “I have my ways.” His voice carried that hint of mischief that had always been her undoing. He moved deeper into the room, circling the edge of the mat like a predator assessing territory. “The Veyra security system has… gaps. For those who know where to look.”

  “Those gaps get people executed.” She remained in the center of the mat, tracking his movements. He was up to something, he was always up to something. “Why are you really here?”

  He paused at the nearest weapon rack, fingers hovering over a training staff before selecting it. The wood twirled between his fingers with no effort. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

  There it was. The old wound, named and reopened in the space of a single sentence. She should have walked out, but her feet rooted to the mat.

  She hated how quickly the tension in the room became a kind of gravity, pulling her and Callum together despite the pain it caused. She hated even more the part of her that wanted to believe him.

  Lira ignored the sensation, focusing instead on the practical concern. “If you’re caught—”

  “I won’t be,” he answered softly, stepping onto the mat with the staff held loosely in one hand. “Spar with me?”

  Lira hesitated. Time alone with Callum was dangerous—like handling exposed wires with wet hands. Every interaction held the potential for shock, for burn from that current that had never quite stopped flowing between them despite her best efforts to sever the connection.

  “One round,” she conceded. She could see the smile that formed behind his mask reflecting in his eyes as she moved to select a staff of her own. The wood felt cool against her palm, its weight perfectly balanced.

  She took position at the center mat, making him come to her. Callum didn’t hesitate.

  They circled each other, two planets caught in a mutual orbit, each calculating the moment of collision. Callum was taller, stronger, but Lira had spent a lifetime compensating for the advantages of men who believed they couldn’t be hurt.

  She feinted left; he followed. She swept a leg; he dodged. They moved with the ease of memory, muscle and bone recalling all of their training sessions. His first strike came swift and testing, a simple thrust she parried easily. The wooden staffs clacked together, the sound sharp in the empty hall. She countered with a sweeping low attack that he jumped over with irritating grace, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.

  “You’re holding back,” she accused, advancing with a series of rapid strikes that forced him to give ground.

  “So are you.” He blocked each blow, the impacts traveling up her arms. “Afraid of getting too close, my love?”

  The old nickname stung more than it should have.

  My love.

  What he used to whisper against her ear in those stolen moments before he crushed any chance for them beneath his heel.

  She attacked with renewed intensity, channeling the surge of emotion into physical force. Each strike contained a memory she couldn’t afford to acknowledge—his hands in her hair, his mouth on her throat, the way he’d looked at her when he’d first removed her mask. Like she was a miracle he couldn’t quite believe existed.

  Callum matched her tempo, his defense shifting seamlessly to offense as he found the rhythm of her anger.

  “You’re angry,” he observed, voice barely strained despite the exertion. “Good. Use it.”

  “I’m not angry.” She panted. “I’m focused.”

  His laugh was warm and knowing. “You’ve never been able to lie to me, Li. Not convincingly.”

  The truth of it only fueled her frustration. She feinted high, then dropped low, sweeping her staff at his ankles. He jumped but not quite high enough—the wood caught his heel, unbalancing him. Lira pressed the advantage, closing the distance and striking at his midsection. He blocked, but the force drove him back farther.

  He caught her staff with his own, locking them together between their bodies. They stood close enough now that she could see the flecks of green in his eyes through the slits in his mask, could feel the heat radiating from his body.

  He smiled down at her, pulling her closer by their staffs as his eyes glinted.

  “Hi, baby.” His voice had dropped low, intimate.

  Lira wrenched her staff free, tossing it to the side, and spun away, creating distance between them. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a thundering betrayal of her composure. This was exactly why she avoided him as much as she could—the way her body remembered what her mind fought to forget.

  Callum followed her lead, tossing his staff to the side, and waited for her next attack. She moved to strike but he caught her arm and spun her, locking her against him. She dropped her eight, rolled, and came up with a sweep that almost took his legs.

  They moved together like smoke, swirling and dancing against the other. Each attack flowing into defense, each defense into attack. Every touch, every brush of skin sent electricity through her. Their bodies remembered each other, muscle memory that five years couldn’t erase.

  They went to the mat hard, her landing on top, thighs bracketing his waist, hands pinning his wrists above his head. Both stayed frozen, both panting. She could feel his heartbeat through every point of contact, could see her own mask reflected in his.

  His hands slid free of her grip—she let them, she absolutely let them—and traced up her legs. Slow. Deliberate. His fingers found the curve of her hips, traveled up her sides with a possessiveness that made her breath catch. One hand rose to her face, tucking a strand of hair that had escaped back behind her ear. The gesture was so soft, so tender like he had always been with her, it nearly broke her.

  He sat up, keeping an arm around her waist as she straddled him, bringing their faces close enough that their masks almost touched. His hand stayed at her jaw, thumb tracing the edge where her mask met skin.

  “I miss you,” he whispered, keeping his eyes locked on hers.

  Three words.

  Simple in structure, devastating in impact.

  Lira felt them each like a punch to her gut, each syllable striking somewhere vital and unguarded. For a dangerous moment, she let herself lean into his touch, let herself remember how perfectly they’d fit together, how completely he’d understood her in ways no one else ever had or likely ever would.

  “Don’t.” She forced the word out, hating how weak it sounded. “You don’t get to say that to me anymore.”

  His hand stilled against her skin. “Li—”

  “No.” She pulled back, rolling away and coming to her feet in one fluid motion. She needed space. She needed distance. “You pushed me away, Callum. You looked me in the eye and told me what we had meant nothing. That I meant nothing.”

  “You know that wasn’t true. You know me well enough to know I never meant a single word of it.” His voice had gone rough around the edges. “You know why I had to say those things.”

  “Do I?” She snatched her fallen staff from the mat. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you made a choice. And it wasn’t me.”

  Callum rose more slowly, his movements lacking their usual fluid grace. “It wasn’t that simple.”

  “It never is with you.” She turned away, returning her staff to the rack with more force than necessary, and willed her voice not to show the emotion exploding in her chest. “Nothing is ever simple with you, Callum. Everything’s a game, a calculation, moves on some board I can’t even see.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Fair?” She spun back to face him, her voice finally catching and cracking. “Was it fair to make me fall in love with you, to let me believe we had a future, then discard me like one of your business arrangements that outlived its usefulness?”

  The words seared the air, molten and unforgiving. They were too honest, too raw. Lira regretted them immediately, her chest aching, a scorch of shame unraveling as she watched the way his body stiffened like she’d stabbed him.

  She never lost control like this. Never let her emotions dictate her words. But Callum had always been the exception, the fault line, the one who slipped past her barricades and unsettled the most guarded corners of her heart. The one that always found the parts of herself she kept hidden from everyone else.

  He took a step toward her, hands open at his sides in a gesture that might have been surrender or supplication. “Lira, please. Let me—”

  “I have errands to run,” she cut him off, retreating behind formality like armor. “Thank you for the match.”

  Callum flinched at the coldness in her words. “You think I wanted to disappear? That it was easy for me to walk away?”

  “You did it anyway.” Her voice was a whisper now, the fight in it gone with only the pain left.

  She moved toward her discarded shoes, slipping them back on as she pushed her arms into her jacket and hoisted her duffel bag over her head.