Five AM in Manhattan. The city below still wrapped in darkness, glittering like scattered constellations against the black canvas of early morning. In the master bedroom, the only sound is the soft rhythm of breathing—hers. Slow. Peaceful. Unaware.

Adrian Voss has been awake for the past forty-three minutes.

He lies on his side, head propped on one hand, watching her sleep with an intensity that would unsettle anyone else. The faint glow from the city casts silver shadows across her features. Her lips slightly parted. Her hand resting open near her pillow. Completely vulnerable. Completely trusting.

His gray eyes trace the curve of her jaw with the same focus he once used to track targets across warzones.

Slowly, without making a sound, he reaches out. His fingertips brush a strand of hair from her face. The touch is impossibly gentle for hands that have ended things. For hands that sign papers that ruin men.

As if some part of him wakes each morning fearing she might not be.