The storm outside had no rain, only wind—sharp, restless, like the night was gnashing its teeth. Elias kept the photos spread across the table, edges curling slightly from the heat of the lamp. The city's noise bled faintly through the walls, but in here, every sound felt too close.
Mara sat on the edge of the couch, one knee pulled to her chest, sweater hanging loose off one shoulder. She looked smaller than she ever let herself be. Still, her eyes—God, her eyes didn't shrink. They burned.
"You're not telling me everything."
Elias didn't turn immediately. He knew her well enough to feel her gaze even without looking. That stubborn warmth, the kind that could slice through the armor he wore like it was paper.
"There's nothing to tell yet," he said, low. A practiced kind of careful.
"Elias." Her voice was soft but firm—the way a blade whispers when it's unsheathed. "Don't do that thing where you pretend I'm safer not knowing."
His jaw tightened. She was right, of course. She usually was. But right and safe weren't the same thing.
He finally turned. Mara hadn't moved, but something in the room had. The air tilted. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sleeve, like she was trying to hold herself together without giving that fact away.
"They're not just watching," Elias said. The words came out heavier than he meant. "They're setting the stage."
Her breath caught. "For what?"
"That's the part I intend to find out before they make their move."
She swallowed. "So they're not just after you."
Elias's silence answered for him.
Mara leaned back, pressing her palm against her knee to ground herself. Her pulse was a mess—fast, uneven, stubborn. She'd known, somewhere in her gut, that being close to him came with shadows. She just hadn't expected the shadows to know her name.
Her voice cracked a little when she said, "Then why didn't you push me away?"
Elias took a breath that didn't steady him. "I tried."
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "You wanted to. That's not the same."
Her honesty hit him like a clean strike. She was right again. He had wanted to. But want had never been enough to stop this gravity between them.
He stepped closer. Not quickly. Not like a threat. More like a confession.
When he stopped in front of her, she tilted her chin up, meeting him halfway without moving an inch. The air between them was a pulse.
"If you stay," he said softly, "you stop being a bystander."
She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "I think that ship already sailed the night I walked into your mess."
Elias's mouth twitched—something between pride and fear. "You really don't know how dangerous this is."
Mara stood then, slow and deliberate. She didn't step back. She stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell the faint trace of her skin, that soft warmth she carried even when the world was biting cold.
"Then teach me," she said.
Somewhere below, a car engine idled too long. Tires crunched on wet pavement. Elias's instincts twitched first. He shifted his weight, body angled subtly between her and the window.
He wasn't imagining it.Someone was watching.
The low hum in his blood—the one he'd learned not to ignore—spiked.
He didn't touch her, but the shift in his stance told Mara everything she needed to know. Her breath hitched. "They're here?"
"Maybe," Elias muttered. "Or they're getting closer."
The night pressed its cold face against the glass. Elias scanned the street through the sliver of curtain—nothing obvious, but obvious threats were never the real ones.
He turned back to her, eyes sharp now. "Pack a bag."
Her brows furrowed. "What?"
"We're not staying here."
"Elias—"
"Please, Mara." His voice cracked a little around her name. That alone was enough to freeze her objections. Elias didn't beg. Not ever.
The next ten minutes moved in strange silence. She threw essentials into a small duffel—phone, charger, sweater, an old book she always carried like a talisman. He stayed by the door, checking sightlines, listening.
Every sound outside—an engine, a footstep, the low rustle of wind—landed like a warning.
When she finally zipped the bag, he was already pulling on his jacket, gunmetal eyes scanning like he'd been born to live in threat.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"A place they won't touch."
"That sounds like something a movie villain says."
He smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Then it's a good thing I'm worse than a movie villain."
They slipped into the night through the back entrance, shadows brushing their ankles. The city wasn't loud, but it wasn't quiet either. It was breathing—steady, patient.
Mara's heart thudded against her ribs, not from running but from being next to him. From not knowing whether the danger behind them was real or still just smoke.
Elias's hand brushed hers—not quite holding, but close enough to anchor her. It shouldn't have mattered. It did.
When they reached the car, he opened the passenger door without a word. She slid in, clutching her bag like a heartbeat. He took the driver's seat, started the engine, and didn't turn on the radio. Silence followed them like a second skin.
As the city lights blurred past, Mara stared at his hands on the steering wheel—steady, precise, dangerous. The same hands that had held her the night everything cracked open.
She whispered, "Are we running?"
Elias didn't look at her. "No. We're moving the game somewhere I control."
"And me?"
Finally, his gaze flicked to her. Just one glance. It was enough to say everything.
"You're the reason I'm not burning it all down yet."
Her pulse stuttered. The night outside rushed by like a secret. And somewhere in the dark, whoever was pulling the strings was about to find out Elias wasn't the kind of man you corner.