GRAYSON HADN’T SLEPT EITHER. Couldn’t.

There was no sign of Theron. The surveillance teams reported nothing. No supernatural signatures. No movement.

Just waiting.

Grayson stood in the security center, monitors displaying every angle of the greenhouse. Mailah was visible on three different feeds, pacing with increasingly unsteady movements. She’d stop occasionally, grip the edge of a planting table, breathe deeply. Then resume pacing.

Maintaining consciousness through sheer stubborn will.

Lucson entered with coffee Grayson didn’t want. "You should rest. Even a few hours—"

"I’m fine."

"You haven’t slept since this started."

"Neither has she."

The words came out sharper than intended. Lucson’s eyebrow rose but he didn’t comment. Just set the coffee down and left.

Grayson pulled up the financial trail Mason had found. Traced the money back through shell corporations and offshore accounts. The amounts were staggering. Someone with a lot of resources was funding Theron.

The question was who. And why.

His phone buzzed. Dr. Morrison: Hour 60 check. Vitals concerning. Heart rate elevated. Showing signs of severe fatigue. Recommend immediate rest.

Grayson typed back: Can she continue?

A pause. Then: Physically? For another 12 hours, possibly. Mentally? The barriers are showing strain. If she sleeps now, even for an hour, they might collapse entirely.

Then she doesn’t sleep.

Gray—

That’s final.

He silenced his phone and returned his attention to the monitors.

Hour sixty-two.

Movement on the eastern perimeter. Not Theron. Just wildlife. The guards were getting jumpy, seeing threats in shadows.

Grayson sent new orders: Hold positions. No movement unless confirmed hostile signature.

On the greenhouse feed, Mailah had stopped pacing. She was sitting now, head in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking.

Crying? Or just tremors from the stimulants?

He zoomed the camera in slightly. Her hands were pressed against her face, fingers white with pressure. Definitely tremors. The medication was pushing her system to its limits.

He reached for his phone to order Dr. Morrison to—

No.

She’d agreed to this. Knew the risks. Chose to be the bait because she understood what was at stake.

He couldn’t compromise the plan because she was suffering.

That’s what he told himself.

Didn’t make it easier to watch.

Hour sixty-five.

Sera arrived with the severance ritual components. Candles, crystals, herbs that smelled like burnt sage and something darker.

"I can begin the moment Theron’s eliminated," she said, arranging items with precise movements. "But she needs to be conscious for the severance. If she’s collapsed by then—"

"She won’t collapse."

"You keep saying that like certainty will make it true." Sera’s silver eyes were unsettling. "The human body has hard limits, Grayson. Willpower only goes so far."

"Then it’s fortunate she has more willpower than most."

Sera studied him for a long moment. "You care about her."

"She’s a tactical asset."

"You’re a terrible liar." Sera returned to her preparations. "The question is whether caring will help or hinder when Theron makes his move."

"It won’t factor."

"Won’t it?" She held up a crystal that pulsed with faint light. "This monitors the dream connection. Right now, it’s dormant. Theron’s passive. But the moment her barriers weaken—the instant she starts to drift toward sleep—it will activate. And he’ll know everything."

Grayson stared at the pulsing crystal. "How much warning will we have?"

"Seconds. Maybe a minute if we’re lucky." She set it on the table where it continued its rhythmic pulse. "If that light turns red, her barriers are failing."

He committed the crystal’s position to memory. Added it to the variables he was tracking.

Carson appeared at the security center door. "She’s asking for you."

"Tell her I’m coordinating the perimeter."

"I did. She said, and I quote, ’Tell him to stop being a coward and get down here.’" Carson’s expression was carefully neutral. "Those were her exact words."

"Noted. The answer is still no."

"Gray, she’s been awake for almost three days. She’s held the barriers. She’s doing everything you asked. The least you can do is—"

"The least I can do is maintain discipline and not compromise the plan because she’s uncomfortable." Grayson’s voice had gone cold. "She knew what this would require. I’m not going to coddle her through it."

Carson’s jaw tightened. "You’re a bastard."

"Yes. Dismissed."

After Carson left, Grayson pulled up the greenhouse feed again.

Mailah was standing at the window, one hand pressed against the glass. Her reflection showed a face he barely recognized—hollow-eyed, gaunt, trembling.

But still standing.

Still fighting.

Still maintaining those goddamn barriers.

His hand moved toward his phone.

Stopped. Moved again.

Stopped.

Finally, he stood and headed for the door.

The greenhouse was quiet when he arrived. The guards concealed in the surrounding foliage didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him. Perfect discipline.

Mailah was still at the window when he entered. She didn’t turn around.

"You came," she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse from days of forced wakefulness.

"You requested my presence."

"Carson said you refused."

"I changed my mind."

She turned slowly, using the window frame for support. The light from outside cast shadows across her face, making the exhaustion even more pronounced.

They stood ten feet apart. Neither moving closer.

"How much longer?" she asked.

"Lucson estimates Theron will move within the next twelve hours. The staged vulnerabilities are too obvious to ignore much longer."

"And if he doesn’t?"

"Then we’ve miscalculated and need a new plan." He kept his voice flat. Professional. "Can you hold the barriers another twelve hours?"

"Yes."

No hesitation. No doubt.

Just certainty that her body might not be able to deliver.

Grayson’s jaw tightened. "Sera says if the barriers start to fail, we’ll have seconds of warning."

"They won’t fail."

"Mailah—"

"They won’t." She pushed off from the window, swayed, caught herself. "I’ve made it this far. I’ll make it the rest of the way."

He watched her struggle to stay upright. Watched her hands shake. Watched her fight to keep her eyes open and focused.

Watched her refuse to break.

"Come here," he said quietly.

She went very still. "That’s not part of the protocol."

"I don’t care."

"The cameras—"

"Are being monitored by Carson, who already thinks I’m a bastard. Come. Here."

She moved toward him slowly, each step deliberate.

When she was close enough, he reached out and pulled her against him. Not gently. With the kind of controlled force that said he was done pretending.

Mailah made a small sound—surprise or relief or both—and collapsed into him. Her weight against his chest, her hands gripping his shirt for balance.

"You’re shaking," he said against her hair.

"Side effect. The stimulants."

"You’re lying."

"Maybe." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "Does it matter?"

"No."

He held her there, one hand on her back, the other in her hair. Feeling the tremors running through her. The exhaustion she was fighting. The barriers she was maintaining.

"When this is over," he said quietly, "you’re sleeping for a week."

"When this is over, you’re explaining why you’re such an asshole about caring."

"Deal."

They stood like that for a long moment. Then Mailah pulled back slightly, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"You should go," she said. "Before you do something else that compromises the plan."

"Like what?"

"Like kiss me while I’m too exhausted to tell you it’s a terrible idea."

His hand tightened in her hair. "Is it?"

"Probably." But she wasn’t pulling away. "We have an audience. The cameras. Theron potentially watching through the connection."

"Do I look like I care now?"

He kissed her. Hard and possessive and completely at odds with every tactical decision he’d made for the past sixty-eight hours. Her hands came up to his face, trembling fingers tracing his jaw.

When he pulled back, her eyes were slightly more focused. Alert.

"That was stupid," she breathed.

"Agreed."

"Tactically unsound."

"Completely."

"You’re going to do it again."

"Yes."

So he did. Deeper this time, his hands spanning her waist, holding her steady when her knees threatened to give out. She made a small sound—need or exhaustion or both—and pressed closer.

The kiss broke when she swayed too far, nearly pulling them both off balance. Grayson caught her, steadied her, then deliberately stepped back.

Distance. Control. Discipline.

"That didn’t happen," he said.

"I know." She was steadier now, though still trembling. "Go. Before you compromise yourself further."

He wanted to argue. Wanted to stay. Wanted to forget the plan and just make sure she survived the next twelve hours.

Instead, he turned and walked out.

In the security center, Carson was smirking at the monitors.

"Don’t," Grayson warned.

"I didn’t say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"Thinking’s not a crime. Even when it’s thinking that you’re a hypocritical asshole who’s been lecturing everyone about discipline while kissing the bait in the middle of an operation."

Grayson ignored him and pulled up the perimeter feeds.

Hour seventy.

The crystal Sera had placed started pulsing faster. Not red yet. But the rhythm had changed.

"What does that mean?" Lucson asked, appearing at Grayson’s shoulder.

"The barriers are under strain. She’s fighting harder to maintain them." Grayson checked his phone. No updates from Dr. Morrison. "How long until the next check?"

"Ten minutes."

Grayson watched the crystal pulse. Watched the monitors. Watched Mailah pace in the greenhouse with increasingly unsteady movements.

Watched everything hang on her ability to hold on for just two more hours.

Hour seventy-two.

Dr. Morrison’s message: She’s at her limit. I’m recommending immediate cessation. Another hour and the barriers will collapse whether she wants them to or not.

Grayson stared at the message. One more hour. Sixty minutes. That’s all they needed.

He typed back: One more hour. Can she do it?

A long pause. Then: I don’t know.

Grayson looked up at Sera’s crystal. Still pulsing blue. Still holding.

On the monitor, Mailah had stopped pacing. She was standing in the center of the greenhouse, perfectly still, eyes closed.

Meditating? Or just concentrating on maintaining the barriers?

He zoomed in. Her lips were moving. Counting? Reciting something?

Then her eyes snapped open, looking directly at the camera.

Directly at him.

And even through the feed, even across the distance, he could see the message in her expression.

One more hour. I can do one more hour.

He pulled out his phone and sent a message to all teams: Final hour. Everyone to positions. Theron moves tonight or not at all.

Then he settled in to watch.

To wait.

To pray to gods he didn’t believe in that the woman in the greenhouse was as strong as she thought she was.

Then the eastern perimeter alarms screamed.