The blackout was total.
One second the auction house was all gold light and polite whispers; the next, the entire building fell into thick, suffocating dark.
The scream came from somewhere to their right, followed by the shattering crash of glass overhead.
Morgana didn't think—she grabbed Callen by the lapel and yanked him down as a cascade of broken glass rained across the marble floor.
"Stay low!" she hissed, clutch clutched like a weapon.
The emergency lights flickered on, weak and ghostly, turning the grand gallery into a series of pale islands in a black sea.
---
Missing
Lot 17's display stand was empty.
Her mind catalogued it in a heartbeat:
No crate.
No guards.
Emil, the man who had bid on it, was gone.
She pushed through the confusion, Callen right behind her.
"Morgana, stop," he said, catching her wrist as she tried to cut down a side corridor.
"Don't slow me down!" she snapped, shaking him off.
---
The Chase
Outside, Prague had become a different kind of stage: rain-slick cobblestones, shadows that swallowed sound, and the glow of street lamps like halos.
A dark van pulled out from behind the gallery, tires squealing on wet pavement.
"That's our lot," she muttered, and took off running.
Her heels hammered the stones, dress slit whipping around her legs. Callen caught up easily, his stride longer, his breath steady.
---
A Narrow Escape
They darted into an alley as the van cut a sharp turn and disappeared over the bridge.
By the time they reached the street, it was gone.
Morgana braced a hand against the wall, breathing hard. She hated losing a target.
Callen stood close, too close, his chest rising and falling in sync with hers.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
"I don't need you to ask me that," she said, still catching her breath.
"No," he said. "I think you do."
And for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the scent of rain, the warmth of his hand as it brushed her elbow.
She moved back a step. She had to.
---
Back at the Hotel
Two hours later, they returned to the hotel soaked, exhausted, and angry.
Morgana stripped out of her wet gown in the bathroom, wrapped herself in a towel, and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Behind her own eyes she saw another face:
The Director's.
His voice.
The night he'd asked her to marry him, quiet and serious, saying, If there's ever a life outside this… I want it with you.
And now she was in Prague, losing a priceless asset, working alongside another man who made her pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.
She hated herself for even noticing.
---
The Call
Her phone buzzed. A secure line.
She answered. "Sir."
His voice was calm, but there was steel in it. "I saw the feed. Are you unharmed?"
"Yes."
"And Lot 17?"
"Gone. They planned the blackout. Emil took it."
A pause. "You have forty-eight hours. Find it, Morgana. And don't let Shaw distract you."
Her grip on the phone tightened. "You assigned him to me."
"I assigned him because I don't trust anyone else with you," the Director said. Then, quieter, "We'll talk when you return. We need to talk about… us."
Her heart squeezed. For a moment she almost said something personal. Instead, she ended the call.
---
The Room Next Door
There was a knock on her adjoining door.
She opened it to find Callen leaning against the frame, hair damp from the shower, T-shirt clinging to his shoulders.
"We need a plan," he said.
She crossed her arms. "We also need boundaries."
"Boundaries don't stop bullets," he said, stepping closer. "Or thieves."
His tone was calm, but there was something in his eyes—a heat that hadn't been there before.
For one breathless moment, they were close enough for her to feel his warmth, his presence filling the narrow space between them.
"Tomorrow," she said finally, forcing herself to step back. "We regroup tomorrow."
He smiled faintly. "Sweet dreams, Cilantro."
---
She closed the door, leaned against it, and exhaled.
The city outside was silent, but inside her chest, everything was far too loud.
---
Forty-eight hours to find a missing painting.
And if she wasn't careful, she was going to lose something much harder to recover: herself.