The Knife in the Quiet
Nyra’s POV
People never see me coming.
That’s my advantage. The pretty assistant. The fixer. The voice behind the curtain smoothing Cassian’s rough edges or organizing Calla’s escapes when things turned messy.
But I’ve always known how to play the long game.
And tonight? The game wasn’t just playing—it was hunting.
I stood in the basement control room of the Paris safe house, staring at six side-by-side screens. Each displayed a different part of the compound: gates, cells, corridors, and most importantly, Dorian—trapped in a reinforced steel room lit by a single overhead bulb.
He sat there cross-legged like he was meditating, blood crusted at the corner of his lip from our last encounter. His fingers were steepled in front of his face. Watching the camera.
