The ivory place card snaps against Eva’s thumb, a small, sharp sound lost beneath the hum of the Newport ballroom. She pulls out her chair, the weight of her ink-blue silk gown dragging against the carpet. Table four. It is the center of the room, a liability in a sea of crystal and peonies. She sits, her posture a rigid column of federal discipline hidden under the poise of a socialite.
Then she looks to her left. The man beside her is an architecture of charcoal wool and cold pale eyes. Mikhail Volkov. He does not turn his head, but his presence is a physical audit, a calculation of her breathing rate and the faint dusting of freckles on her nose. He should be three states away, rotting in a deposition room, not adjusting a platinum cufflink at a wedding reception. Eva’s heart hammer-strikes against her ribs, but her face remains a mask of bored elegance. She is no longer Brennan; she is the fiction the Bureau built.
He speaks without looking at her, his voice a low, melodic threat in the air between them. "The chignon is a new touch, Eva." The use of her real name is a death sentence delivered with a smile. Mikhail’s left hand slips beneath the damask tablecloth, his thumb brushing the line of her silk dress as he reaches for his thigh holster.
