GIDEON: This is not a negotiation.
My stomach drops straight into my shoes.
That message — the last one — was sent eight minutes ago.
“Oh shit,” I whisper.
I hit call. The phone rings once. He answers on the inhale.
“Penelope.”
Just my name. Flat. Furious. Terrified.
“It’s me,” I whisper.
There’s a beat — not silence, exactly, just a sharp inhale like he’s keeping himself from snapping in half.
“Get your ass home right now.”
The command is low, and heat shoots straight through my spine.
“Yes, sir.”
I’m already turning the key in the ignition, breath shaking, hands trembling as I pull out of the parking lot.
Chapter Thirty
GIDEON
By the timeten minutes are up, I’m on my third lap, pacing the length of the loft.
Silas sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles have gone white. He looks calm, but I know better. His version of panic is quiet and focused. Mine is wearing a groove in the floor.
Talon is a knot of energy near the window—back and forth, back and forth, fingers in his hair, hoodie half-zipped like he forgot how clothes work. Every few seconds he glances at the door, then at his phone, then at me.
“Stop glaring at me,” he mutters finally.
“I’m not glaring at you,” I say.
“You are,” he fires back. “You’ve got that ‘I’m going to throttle someone’ face on.”
“That’s my normal face,” I tell him.
Silas snorts. “He’s not wrong.”
I check the time again.
Eight minutes since she called. The sir did not help my blood pressure.
Headlights sweep across the living room wall.
I stop pacing, Silas stands, and Talon freezes like a deer in headlights. Keys jingle on the other side of the door, then the lock turns. I’m at the door before she can even open it.
Penelope stands there clutching her bag as though it is the only thing holding her together. Her dress is pristine, hair curled, makeup still intact. On the surface, she looks like she walked off a brochure for “modern, put together woman.”
Her eyes give it away.
Too bright. Too wide. Too jumpy.
