What she thought would take a week of waiting had turned into twenty-one days of twiddling her thumbs.

“You know, when you said you had a plan, I didn’t think you were going to wait this long to implement it,” Winter commented as she pulled the containers full of fried rice, Mongolian beef, and teriyaki chicken from the brown paper bag they came in. “What are we waiting on again?”

Răzvan was stretched out on her newly purchased couch—the one he had practically carried in himself, though she’d helped a little. He held a beer in one hand, his gaze trailing her as she worked.

—It’s about being strategic. If you’re not the only one after something, you need to raise the stakes to make the competition drop out.—

“Totally get that, but how long is that going to take?”

—Are you on the clock?—

She grabbed plates from the kitchen, dropping down onto the couch beside him. “Not necessarily, but I wouldn’t want to miss out on all the fun.”

The game went on until someone won, so there was plenty of time on that front, but if The Kingmaker needed her for something—or Syn finally decided to come Stateside for a spell—she would be pulled away. When that happened, there was never any telling how long it would be before she was back.

—Patience is key.— He picked up one of the white containers, deftly scooping rice onto his plate.

“But wouldn’t you rather tell me?”

His look said everything his words didn’t.

If he’d wanted to tell her, she would have known by now.

“Fine.” She glared at him. “Leave me in suspense.”

Răzvan didn’t smile often, but when he did, it sent butterflies fluttering to life in her stomach.

It was always lopsided, one side of his mouth always turned up a little higher, and amused.

He was too attractive for his own good.

—How’s a girl like you end up working for someone like The Kingmaker?—

She shrugged, looking away. “He needed a hacker—I hack.”

—Yet you didn’t sign a contract … or the training.—

Winter looked up in surprise.

His smile grew. —You hack, I listen.—

And if he frequented The Hall, the people there had a tendency to discuss any and everyone. “I really hope no one underestimates the quiet ones.”

His shoulders shook with silent laughter. —I’m all ears.—

Despite their many conversations, they had never gotten around to talking about The Kingmaker or her relationship with the mercenaries.

Not that she was hiding anything—they just never came up.

“The way I’ve always heard it, a man named Z usually found those broken enough to accept a deal to become one of The Kingmaker’s mercenaries. Only those who are going in to become a mercenary do the training. As you can see”—she gestured to herself— “I’m no mercenary.”

Răzvan chewed. —What broke you?—

It was a day she didn’t like to remember.

* * *

School was the worst.

The absolute worst.

Winter hated her teachers—who all seemed so bored as they droned on about lessons she didn’t care about—and the other kids were even worse.

It was never easy being the new kid in class—she was used to that, having switched schools three times in the past year—but she decided this was the worst move by far.

Her last school hadn’t been any better, but at least she had made somewhat of a friend in Jenny from third period while she was there.

Now? The only thing she wanted to do was stick around the bar with her Uncle Steve and let him teach her. He knew everything.

The rain was beating down harder, making her dash through the streets toward the pub, knowing Uncle Steve would already be in and setting up.

Monday nights were always the best for the pub. People crowded in to watch the games and place their bets with Uncle Steve.

They were good at hiding what they were doing too, just covert slips of money, but Winter had caught a few of them. She knew what they were really doing.

He usually forbade her from coming down, making her go up to their little apartment and hang out while he handled business down below.

But tonight was supposed to be slow, and she was allowed to stick around as long as she stayed out the way.

“There’s my girl!” Steve yelled as soon as she pushed through the door, her first smile all day blooming on her face.

“Hey, Uncle Steve.”

“How was school, huh? Givin’ ‘em hell?”

“Of course!”

He didn’t have to know that she spent most of the day sitting away from everyone else.

As soon as she was within reach, he pulled her into a tight, back slapping hug that never failed to make her laugh.

Sometimes, he forgot she was his niece and not his nephew.

“How’s about I have Roger fix you up something in the kitchen? Whatever you want.”

“I’ll ask him,” she said before stepping around him, walking toward the back of the pub where she could be by herself.

One of Steve’s special customers came in then and stole his attention.

She never bothered asking Roger to fix her something to eat, not when she was more excited about finally being alone so she could work on the mini laptop Steve had gotten her from one of his ‘clients’ a few weeks ago.

It was the smallest one she had ever seen, but she loved it because it was hers, and she loved learning how to use it.

She was tucked beneath one of the tables when the men—and woman—came in, the bell ringing.

The wooden tables blocked much of her view from where she was sitting, but from what little she could see, the first thing she noticed were the heavy boots one of them was wearing—much like the secondhand Docs she was wearing.

His shoes were tied funny. Instead of the bow she usually tied hers with, his laces were wrapped around his boots before being knotted at the front.

Ever since Steve had bought her that first pair of what he liked to call ‘Princess shit-kickers,’ she had never wanted to wear anything else.

The kids at her school made fun of hers and not just because they were old. Girls aren’t supposed to wear boots like a boy, they said. You’re so weird, said others.

They just didn’t get how cool they were.

It was his cool shoes that had her peeking out from her hiding spot, wanting to get a better view of the man they belonged to.

She had never seen anyone wear cool shoes like his. People always wore dusty tennis shoes that seemed far too big most of the time, and Katie, the biggest bully of all, wore ballerina shoes that looked like they pinched her feet.

She followed those boots up his jeans-clad legs and over the leather jacket he wore with a monogram across the back of it. Wraiths was written in thick letters along with a skull.

She skipped over the rest of the details until she reached the man’s face or, at least, his profile.

He wasn’t a man, she realized, but a boy. Older than her by several years—probably as old as her cousin who’d gone off to college last year—but he wasn’t a man.

His ears had holes in them, she thought, until she squinted her eyes and just saw the light sheen of metal. Were they stretched that big?

Different. He was different.

She was fascinated.

He strayed from his friends, walking farther in her direction, though she was sure he hadn’t noticed her yet. Instead, he sat a table over with his back against the wall and his hands tucked into his pockets.

His lips were moving, and his eyes slid shut briefly but not for longer than a few seconds.

Was he … talking to himself?

What had her uncle always told her about people who talked to themselves?

Ten pounds of crazy in a five-pound bag.

“Hey, mister? Are you crazy?”

Winter slapped a hand over her mouth, not having meant to ask the question aloud—especially not when he’d obviously heard her as his lips stopped moving and his eyes dropped to where she was sitting.

She expected him to get angry like others so often did when she spoke without thinking, but instead, his head canted to the side the way her old dog, Rufus, used to do when he saw a squirrel.

A heartbeat passed, a second, then he was smiling a ghost of a smile that made her feel ridiculously happy.

“Jury’s still out on that one, luv. What’s a little thing like you doing in here?” he asked, and that quickly, she was enthralled.

Never had she heard an accent like his, one that seemed to mull over each word that left his mouth.

All warnings about talking to strangers in the bar flew out the window. “I’m making sure my uncle stays out of trouble,” she said with a shrug of her shoulder.

The mysterious man rested his elbows on the table as he leaned toward her, hair the color of an oil slick falling over his forehead. “This ain’t a place for you, though, is it?”

Winter shrugged, not really understanding what he meant by the question. “If you want to order something, you’ll have to go to the bar, you know.” She pointed at where her uncle was standing, having not noticed them.

His smile stayed firmly fixed on his face. “I think I’m good here, thanks.”

She didn’t want to let the conversation die. “Are you waiting for your friends?” she asked.

“Can’t say I have any of those, little miss.”

“Not even the ones you came in with?”

He shrugged.

“Everyone needs a friend,” she went on, pausing a beat. “I could totally be your friend.”

She didn’t have very many, and if he didn’t have any at all, then maybe they could be each other’s.

Maybe, Winter thought a few minutes later as she slid from under the table and actually sat at one of the tables, they were always meant to be friends.

He was nice.

A little weird with the way his gaze constantly scanned the room, but nice all the same.

“I’m Winter, just so you know.”

His smile tipped up at one corner as he inclined his head. “Syn.”

“Wicked.”

He tapped his fingers against the table. “Friends forgive friends, no?”

She frowned at the question, not understanding. “Of course.”

It was easy sitting next to him, prattling on about anything she could think of. He didn’t respond much—not that she minded—and it wasn’t until the pub started emptying that she noticed how Syn sat up a little straighter.

The clock struck 11:14.

She didn’t think she had ever seen that time displayed before, and maybe she was so aware of it because Syn plucked the pencil from behind her ear.

“Could I borrow this, luv?” he asked, though he already had it in his hand.

Confusion flitted across her face, but she didn’t mind letting him have it—it wasn’t as if she was using it.

He flipped it around between his fingers without once letting it fall, but even as deftly as he did it, he didn’t take his eyes away from the newcomer who had walked into the pub.

He wore the same sort of leather jacket with the logo on the back as Syn did, but something was off about him. His expression was grim, and beyond the black clothing he wore, his shaved head only made him seem darker.

Winter tried to get a better look at him but froze when Syn’s hand on top of her head stopped her.

“Erilio wants his money.”

Uncle Steve’s gaze darted in her direction, and she saw a trace of fear there. She was so used to him being able to talk his way out of anything, but this wasn’t a time when he could.

“I’ve got most of it. Just give me a little time, and I’ll get you the rest.”

“Mmm, that’s not how this works.”

Before he could say anything else, the man pulled out a shiny silver gun—the biggest Winter had ever seen. She wished she could have done something—anything, but she was frozen in place.

Too afraid to move.

Too afraid to even think.

But Syn was there—as much a stranger as he was her protector.

“That’s not the job. Take the bag and let’s get moving, Digger.”

The man, Digger, didn’t lower his weapon, but he did look in Syn’s direction. “You’ve gotten soft.”

If he was trying to bait him, it didn’t work. “Finish the job.”

Digger laughed. “And if I don’t?”

Winter glanced at Syn before dropping her gaze to the pencil he was still holding.

Uncle Steve looked back and forth between them before finishing bagging the money and pushing it across the bar top. “Three days, that’s all I need. I’ll have his money.”

“Good,” Digger said, relief coursing through Winter as he picked up the bag. “But that won’t help you now.”

A split second was all it took for Winter’s life to flash before her eyes.

A second before Digger fired and a bullet plugged through Steve’s forehead and shattered the mirror behind him.

With the blood rushing in her ears, she didn’t hear her own screams as her uncle slumped to the floor, his eyes still wide.

But she felt herself screaming even as the hot tracks of tears running down her face blurred her vision.

“Take care of the girl.”

Syn didn’t budge. “Not going to happen.”

“She’s seen our faces. You know the rules,” the other stated dispassionately.

Yet still, Syn didn’t move from his position in front of her.

“Fine,” Digger said marching toward them. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

He didn’t get within a foot of her, though, before Syn went from motionless to … something else.

She only saw the first sharp thrust of the pencil he embedded in Digger’s neck before she squeezed her eyes shut.

But she could hear everything.

There was no blocking out the wet, sickly noises the men made as they gurgled and choked on their own blood, but not once were either of them able to get a shot off.

Winter knew before she opened her eyes they would be dead, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of Syn standing there, soaked in blood with a bloody pencil in his hand.

Seeing him and knowing her uncle was dead on the floor behind the bar made her burst into tears, sobs wracking her chest.

“Hey there, don’t cry,” Syn whispered, brushing her tears away. “I’m not good with tears.”

But they wouldn’t stop, and as she looked up at the shattered mirror where her uncle had been staring, she could see the bloody streaks on her from where Syn brushed her sadness away.

* * *

Maybe that story was a little heavier than she meant it to be—she could practically feel Răzvan’s gaze boring into the side of her face—but she couldn’t look at him.

She was a talker, or more aptly, she overshared about everything, but she hadn’t realized how recounting her tragedy would make her feel. It was a story she rarely told.

Too personal.

Too heartbreaking.

Even she wouldn’t know what to say if someone unloaded on her like that, and now that she thought about it, she hadn’t actually answered his question.

Clearing her throat, she placed her plate on the table. “After … Syn placed me with this family in Arizona, and he disappeared for a bit.”

Răzvan was quiet for so long she wondered if he would ever respond, but finally, he asked a question of his own. —Syn. Where is he now?—

“London. He doesn’t come across the pond very often.” If ever.

—But he came to save you? A girl he didn’t know?—

“It’s complicated.”

There was no other word to describe her relationship with Syn.

Others had asked why Syn had saved her that day—why he’d been willing to risk it all when he hadn’t even known her name before that very moment.

Winter didn’t know why either.

“Anyway,” Winter said with a shaky laugh, “what were your parents like?” She desperately wanted to get off the topic of her and Syn and everything about them.

But as the question hung between them, she almost wished she hadn’t asked it from the way his expression changed from one of concern to one of barely concealed pain.

It was easy to ask about the little things—his favorite food, his favorite color, and what he might like to do outside his work with The Wild Bunch—but the things that mattered … those weren’t easy at all.

His hands lifted, but he didn’t get a chance to respond before his phone buzzed, drawing both of their attention to it.

—Maybe next time.—

Once he looked down at the screen, he passed her his phone, waiting for her to read the alert that had appeared.

“Holy shit,” she said, looking up at him, her earlier melancholy momentarily forgotten. “They actually moved the server.”

Răzvan nodded. —Now it’s time to steal it.—