Catch Me If You Can - Pietro Maximoff

THREE

My chest squeezed, torn between the loyalty I owed Sean—my partner, my friend—and the truth: Pietro had dangled something in front of me I couldn't walk away from. My career was on the line, my chance at proving myself, and the cruelest part of all was how much it thrilled me to play this dangerous game with him.

But Sean didn't deserve the fallout of my ambition.

I steadied my voice, lifting my chin like the mask could make the lie pass. "Nothing happened. Not the way you think."

I exhaled sharply, prying his hand off my arm before Stark or Pietro decided to reappear and catch us looking like two amateurs whispering in the corner. My voice came out steadier than I felt, though my pulse was a hammer beneath my skin.

"He's setting up a deal," I muttered, eyes darting back toward the gleam of Pietro's silver hair and blue eyes across the lobby. "With Stark. With me. Insider access. How the Avengers operate, what goes on behind the curtain—all of it."

Sean blinked, confusion clouding into alarm. "What?" His voice pitched higher, like he couldn't believe I'd just said it out loud. "Iris, you really think Stark is just going to hand you a press pass to his inner circle because—what? You flirt with his pet speedster?"

The word flirt made my spine stiffen. I wanted to snap back, deny it, but the truth wedged sharp against my throat. That's not what this is.

I lowered my voice, leaning closer, willing him to understand. "This isn't scraps, Sean. This isn't another recycled press release we try to spin into something palatable. This is the real thing. If we can get inside—even a sliver of it—we're not just reporting the story, we are the story."

My own words burned hot against the back of my tongue. I hated the way they sounded—hungry, reckless, desperate—but I couldn't un-feel the weight of them. I'd tasted it already: the rush of Pietro leaning in too close, whispering things that shouldn't be mine to know, and the terrifying allure of being handed the keys to a world no journalist had ever cracked open.

Sean dragged a hand down his face, incredulous. "And you believe him? Him? Milaya, he's dangerous. He's not giving you anything unless there's a catch—and you don't even know what it is yet."

I do know, I thought grimly, though I didn't dare say it aloud. The catch was already evident: Pietro had me on a string, and every time I thought I was the one tugging it, he yanked me harder into his orbit.

Aloud, I bit out, "I don't have to trust him. I just have to use him."

Sean recoiled, searching my face like he couldn't decide if I was brilliant or insane. "And when he decides he's the one using you?"

A humorless laugh scraped its way out of me, low and brittle. "Then at least I'll know I went down swinging, instead of rotting away writing puff pieces about Stark's latest toys."

Sean's jaw worked like he wanted to argue, but the words caught. His hand hovered near mine, not quite touching, as if even proximity might tip me further over the edge. His eyes—God, they were pleading now, soft with something dangerously close to pity.

"Laya," he said quietly, "this isn't you. You don't make back-alley deals with men like him. You don't sell yourself out just to get a headline. What really happened while you were gone?"

Printsessa. Deal. His eyes on me like he already owned every answer. The memory burned hot under my skin. I shoved it down.

"Nothing happened," I lied, too quickly, and the flicker in Sean's gaze told me he heard the fracture in my voice. I tried again, softer this time, smoothing the jagged edges. "Nothing that matters. What matters is the story. What matters is proving we belong in this field. You know Jones—he's not going to notice us unless we set his desk on fire."