The master bedroom of the safe house was no longer a sanctuary of shared secrets; it had become a velvet-lined cell. Rhoda sat upright on the edge of the massive bed, the same silk sheets that had felt like luxury a night before now feeling like a shroud. The room was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the high, reinforced windows and the blue glow of Evan's monitors across the room.
The air still carried the faint scent of him—expensive tobacco, cold rain, and gun oil. It made Rhoda feel sick.
A soft click signaled the door unlocking. Evan stepped in, his silhouette cutting a jagged hole in the light from the hallway. He was carrying a tray with soup and bread, his movements silent and predatory. He set the tray on the nightstand, right next to the spot where she had laid her head just hours ago.
"Eat," he said, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "You haven't had anything since the bank."
"I told you downstairs," Rhoda said, her voice small but sharp as a needle. "I'm not touching anything you give me. I want to go home. Truly home. Away from you."
Evan didn't move. He stood over her, his eyes searching her face, settling on the dark, angry bruise Miller had left on her cheek. He reached out, his thumb twitching as if he wanted to touch the mark, but Rhoda flinched back so hard she nearly fell off the bed.
"Why, Evan?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "Why go through the theatre of the last few months? You knew everything about me. You knew my bus routes, my favorite coffee, my family's history. You had it all in those files. Why bother with the wallet? Why bother making me think we had... whatever this is?"
Evan leaned back against the heavy mahogany dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. "Because a profile on a screen doesn't tell me if you'll blink when a gun is in your face. I needed to see your soul, Rhoda. I needed to know if you were the kind of woman who would choose a criminal over the law. The wallet wasn't just a test of your honesty; it was a test of your instinct. You chose me that day. I just made sure you kept choosing me."
"You manipulated me," she hissed, standing up to face him. The height difference was intimidating, but her fury gave her a phantom stature. "You didn't scout the bank. You scouted me. You picked a girl who was lonely and struggling and made her feel like she was part of something bigger. You used my life like it was a blueprint for your revenge."
"I can't change how it started, Rhoda," Evan rasped, his eyes darkening. "And I didn't plan for how it would feel to actually have you here. I told you—the attraction wasn't part of the plan. That part was real."
"Nothing you say is real!" she yelled, her voice echoing in the rafters. "You're a ghost, remember? You don't have a heart; you just have a mission. Go back to your crew, Evan. Go sugarcoat the truth to Miller. Tell them I'm your woman so they don't kill me, but we both know I'm just a variable you're keeping under your thumb."
Evan stepped into her space, his heat radiating off him in waves. He grabbed her arms, not painfully, but with a grip that made it clear she wasn't going anywhere. "I called you my woman because it's the only thing Miller respects. If he thinks you're just a teller, he'll discard you. If he thinks you're mine, he fears you. You stay in this room. You don't open this door for anyone but me."
"And if I do?" she challenged, her eyes wet with angry tears. "Will you tell me to jump out of the car again if I really want to leave? Will you tie me to this bed?"
Evan's gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. The possessiveness in his expression was terrifying. "If it keeps you alive until the split is over, yes. I'll do whatever I have to do."
"But I saved you today, Rhoda. If I hadn't shown up at your apartment, Miller wouldn't have just slapped you. He would have taken you to a basement somewhere to find out what I'm really up to. He knows I'm hiding something. He knows the vault wasn't just about the cash."
"Then tell him!" she yelled. "Tell him you used us both! Tell him you're a freak who stalks women for sport!"
Evan stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her. "I can't tell him because if he knows I'm doing this for a personal vendetta, he'll realize I'm not thinking like I should. He'll realize I'm vulnerable. And in this business, being vulnerable is a death sentence and — I don't stalk women for sport."
He looked at her, his gaze intense and suffocating. "I'm going back upstairs to manage them. They want to move the split tonight. Until then, you stay in this room. If you hear anything—shouting, gunfire, anything—you lock this door and you don't open it for anyone but me. Do you understand?"
"I hope they kill you," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I hope they find out everything and they tear you apart."
Evan stared at her for a long beat, his face a mask of stone. "If they do, you're next. Remember that." He turned and walked toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "The soup is getting cold, Rhoda. Eat. I need you sharp."
The heavy door thudded shut, and the lock turned with a finality that made her chest ache. Rhoda looked at the tray, then at the monitors across the room. She was in the heart of his world, surrounded by the evidence of his obsession.
She walked to the window and looked out at the city. Somewhere out there was the life she used to have—boring, safe, and honest. Here, she was a queen in a gilded cage, guarded by a man who had loved her from the shadows long before he ever dared to step into the light.
She reached for her locket, her fingers brushing the silver disk. Evan was upstairs with the crew, and she was alone in his bed, wondering why the man she hated was the only thing standing between her and a shallow grave.