Nicholas Quinn lay flat on his back in the barracks, hands tucked behind his head, eyes locked on the ceiling like it was holding answers it had no business keeping from him. The hum of the air unit and the occasional snore from some asshole two bunks down were the only sounds filling the dark. Everyone else was out cold, but not him. Sleep never came easy. It hadn’t since he was seventeen, since the night his mother’s blood had been left on a sidewalk because some group of fanatics thought blowing up half the block would prove a point.

That was the night everything changed. College? Forget it. A normal life? Not for someone like him. The CIA had become his answer—his purpose, his shot at making sure no other kid lost the only person who gave a damn about them. Two years in training now, and still every day felt like a battle just to prove he wasn’t the street rat he grew up as. Prove he belonged here among the golden boys and girls who had been bred for this shit.

Gracie Hamilton was one of those golden ones—born into it. Parents who were already deep in the Agency, who probably whispered mission reports at the dinner table. Yet she was different. Didn’t lord it over anyone. Didn’t act like she was better. Reserved, yeah, but she had this quiet strength, the kind Nick could respect. They’d clicked fast, maybe because they both carried their scars in silence.

Still, he didn’t expect her to show up here, not in the middle of the night, not in the goddamn boys’ barracks. Which is why, when cool fingers tapped his shoulder, he damn near jumped out of his skin.

“The fuck—” he hissed under his breath, twisting toward the shadow.

It was her. Gracie. Long black hair loose down her shoulders, catching the dim glow of the exit light. Blue eyes steady even in the dark. She wore a black tank top that clung to her toned frame and camo tactical pants, the kind they trained in, though her boots were off—smart enough not to get caught clomping through the halls.

His brows knit together, heartbeat still thudding in his ears. “Gracie? What the hell are you doing in here? You know if they catch you—”