The safe house feels different after Jax leaves. Smaller, somehow, like his presence was taking up more space than I realized and now the rooms have contracted around his absence. I shower, change into clean clothes Brandon delivered yesterday along with groceries and toiletries, and make coffee I don't particularly want but need something to do with my hands.
Nine-fifteen AM. Jax has been gone for nearly two hours. His text said he's heading back, but "heading back" could mean anything—ten minutes or two hours depending on whether Lucien kept him for follow-up conversations about professional boundaries and compromised objectivity.
The burner phone Blackwood gave me sits on the kitchen counter next to my untouched coffee. My actual phone is still at the apartment—potential evidence and also potentially compromised after Trask had twenty minutes alone with it. This temporary replacement feels wrong in my hand, unfamiliar weight and interface, like I'm borrowing someone else's life.
No new messages beyond the exchange with Jax twenty minutes ago. I pick up the burner, set it down, repeat the cycle three times before forcing myself to leave it alone. This is what dependency looks like—checking obsessively, needing constant contact, unable to function without knowing exactly where he is and when he's returning.
The burner vibrates against the counter. Text from Solange:Brunch tomorrow? I need to see your face and confirm you're actually okay.
I stare at the message, trying to decide how much to tell her. That I slept with Jax last night? That professional security and personal involvement are now entangled in ways I can'tseparate? That I'm sitting in a safe house waiting for a man whose job is watching me to come back so we can talk about what happens next?
Me:Tomorrow works. Your place or mine?
Solange:Yours is compromised, remember? Trask broke in. Come to mine. Eleven AM. Bring your security detail,
Me:I will. See you then.
I set down the phone, return to my coffee that's gone lukewarm. The morning stretches ahead with nothing to fill it except waiting and thinking, both of which feel dangerous right now.
At ten-twenty, I hear keys in the lock. The door opens and Jax enters carrying takeout bags that smell like heaven. He looks tired but not devastated, evidence that Lucien didn't fire him or impose consequences too severe to recover from.
"You brought food," I say.
"I brought food. Figured you might not have eaten yet." He sets the bags on the kitchen counter, and starts unpacking containers. "Eggs, bacon, toast, fruit. Everything that seemed safe for post-crisis breakfast."
"Post-crisis or post-sex?"
He pauses mid-unpacking and meets my eyes. "Both. All of it. Everything that happened in the past twelve hours deserves actual food."
The honesty is disarming. I move to the counter, open one of the containers, and find scrambled eggs that are still warm. "So, how did it go with Lucien?"
"Well, it turned out Lucien assigned me to protect you for reasons more complicated than I knew, but now that I understand the full scope, we're good." He pulls out plates,divides the food with the efficiency of someone who's done this before. "We need to talk about what he told me. Some of it I can share. Some of it I can't."
"That's not cryptic at all."
"It's the reality of working for someone who operates in moral gray zones and has obligations to people beyond just Dominion members." He hands me a plate. "Eat first. Then we'll talk."
We eat standing at the counter, the breakfast competent but unremarkable in the way takeout always is when you're too hungry to care about presentation. The food gives us something to focus on besides the conversation we're about to have, the night we spent together, the ways everything changed in the past twelve hours.
When we're finished, Jax clears the plates, rinses them in the sink, and turns to face me with the expression he gets when he's about to deliver tactical assessment. "Lucien has a friend. Someone he's known since before he had money, before The Dominion, before any of the power he has now. This friend got involved with organizations he regrets, wants out, but can't leave cleanly."
I lean against the counter, processing implications. "Organizations like The Glasshouse."
"Yes. And when Gabriel died, this friend panicked. Thought the people he's trying to leave were cleaning house, eliminating anyone who knew too much." Jax's voice is measured, careful. "He asked Lucien to find out if you know anything dangerous. If you're sitting on evidence that threatens operations people will kill to protect."
The full scope of my surveillance finally makes sense. "So you weren't just protecting me. You were assessing what I know. Whether I'm a threat."
"Yes. Dual purpose assignment I didn't fully understand until this morning." He holds my gaze. "But Lana, I told Lucien the truth—you know almost nothing. Solange is decoding Gabriel's files and finding networks, but you yourself have no operational knowledge. No evidence. You're not a threat to anyone."
"Except Ezra."
"Except Ezra, who's being handled through legal channels rather than surveillance." He moves closer, close enough that I can see exhaustion carved into his features. "Lucien's friend can stop being terrified of you. That part is resolved."
"But you can't tell me his name."
"No. Lucien was explicit—the fewer people who know, the safer this person stays. I'm sorry. I know that feels like I'm keeping secrets after promising transparency."
The apology is genuine, which makes it harder to be angry about information being withheld. "So what happens now? With us? With your assignment?"
