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Chapter 640
Chapter 640:
June leaned against the kitchen island. The granite was cold through the thin silk. She watched his hands — long fingers, precise movements, the same hands that had shredded evidence to save her, that had learned every contour of her in the dark.
The coffee machine gurgled. The smell of it, rich and bitter, mingled with cedar and his skin.
Easton plated the eggs with unnecessary care. Two slices of sourdough toast, perfectly browned. He carried everything to the island and set a mug in front of her with a quiet ceramic clink.
He didn’t sit. He stood on the opposite side of the island, his hands flat on the granite, and looked at her.
“Last night,” he said.
June picked up her coffee. The heat burned her palms. She didn’t flinch.
𝗦𝗵𝗮re y𝗈𝗎r 𝘁𝗵𝗼u𝘨𝗵𝘵𝘴 𝘰n 𝗴𝖺𝗅n𝗼𝗏е𝗅ѕ.𝗰𝗼𝗆
“Last night,” she agreed.
“I meant what I said.” His voice dropped lower, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with volume. “The dark side. The consequences. All of it.” He reached across the island, his fingers finding her chin and tilting her face up to meet his eyes. “You don’t carry that weight anymore. I do p>
June felt the words settle in her chest — a pressure, not unpleasant, like a hand pressing gently against her sternum.
“The traffic cameras,” she said. “The hotel security. The Aston Martin’s onboard computer p>
“Gone.” His thumb traced her jawline. “Military-grade overwrite. My team used a zero-day exploit on the municipal traffic database. Right now, the NYPD is looking at corrupted sectors and random noise.” He smiled, small and private. “They’ll find nothing. You were never there p>
June set down her coffee. Her hand was steady. She had spent years making sure her hands were steady.
“And if they trace it back to you p>
Easton leaned across the island. His mouth found hers — coffee and salt and something uniquely him. When he pulled back, his eyes were the color of storm clouds over the Atlantic.
“Let them try p>
His phone buzzed on the counter. He ignored it.
“Eat,” he said. “Then sleep. You’re safe here p>
June looked at the eggs. At the man who had burned his entire ethical framework to ash for her. At the morning light catching the silver at his temples.
She picked up her fork.
Three miles downtown, in the glass tower housing Love Media Group, Crawford Love sat behind a desk that had cost more than most Manhattan apartments.
The Ghost Team captain stood before him, sweating despite the climate-controlled air.
“Sir. The package p>
Crawford didn’t look up from the tablet in his hands. The screen showed the B2 parking level. Timestamp 02:47. An Aston Martin DBS, license plate visible. A man in a dark suit — Hahn, unmistakable even in low-resolution thermal imaging — opening the passenger door, his hand at June’s elbow, his body positioned between her and the camera’s angle.
The next image: the same car entering a private garage beneath a residential tower on the Upper East Side. Timestamp 02:52.
The final image: the car, still parked, at 06:15. At 07:30. At 08:45.
Crawford’s fingers tightened around the Montblanc pen in his hand. The resin cracked with a sound like a gunshot. Black ink sprayed across the Persian carpet.