From the driver’s seat, Owen’s voice snaps over his shoulder like a thrown stone. “One more word and I’m throwing you out of this van,” he shouts. “Don’t make me regret sparing your lives.”
Estella whispered his name to me before we got in, but said nothing else, leaving me to wonder how she knows him.
She presses two fingers to the bridge of her nose and exhales, annoyance folding into that tiny gesture. It feels too dangerous to pry, and I’m not about to risk spoiling whatever fragile balance we managed to build with something careless.
“Fucking clown,” she mutters, leaning toward me. She’s quiet enough that I have to lean in to hear her, and I can’t help the small laugh that slips out, earning a snort from her. “He watched too many assassin movies.”
She isn’t wrong. Owen is theater masquerading as menace—a turtleneck pretending to be armor, the posture of someone who practiced looking dangerous in the mirror. He’s cartoonish in his aggression, the kind of man you want to shove off a cliff just to see the final act. And the other nameless man sitting beside us is silent, stoic, refusing even to acknowledge we exist. Both add noise to the van, and neither is useful when the plan requires precision.
“Where exactly are we going? What’s the plan?” I ask, staring into the rearview mirror so I can watch the others.
Owen looks up, meets my eyes, then narrows his to cold slits before laughing. “We’re driving to the destination,” he says, clipped. “Questions later.”
I don’t know what his problem is. There’s something in the way he looks at Estella—a shade of resentment, maybe jealousy, the rusty tang of something old and bitter. An unwanted picture unspools in my mind, and bile rises in my throat.
I curl my hand into a fist until my knuckles ache, trying to clamp down on the images of Estella alone with this idiot. The feeling blooms quickly, a tight, blind rage that makes my limbs want to leap, reach, and end him with a single motion.
“There’s no reason for it, really,” Estella says beside me, her eyes fixed on the back of his head. “He just thinks he’s more mysterious that way, that it adds to his image.”
She’s thinking murder too—I can feel it. That general thought sits between us like a shared spark. The van hums along, and outside, the mountains lean in—indifferent and vast.
I nod, deciding it’s better to let the idiot exist in his own small theater. Engaging him would only feed the heat in my chest, and I need every scrap of that anger later for Ezra.
When I pull my gaze away, I feel the sudden burn of observation settle on me. Turning, I notice the nameless man has abandoned his laptop and is studying me instead. His thin lips press into a line, as if tasting an unsaid question.
I lift an eyebrow at him. He holds my gaze a breath longer, and then, as if bored by the experiment, swivels back and buries himself in code and numbers again.
What is wrong with these two?
I straighten my shoulders, feeling the weight of my hands, and slow my breathing until each inhale is measured and controlled.
We’re moving toward a target and toward the precise moment when the stored heat will be worth spending.
Until then, I breathe steadily, wait, and collect myself like a thief readying a blade.
The house looksas if the mountain spat it out—rough-hewn timbers, dark stone, and wide panes of glass that trap every shift of the sky. It is a shelter for work and survival, not for memory or comfort. When the wind comes, it carries the sharp, cleantang of pine and ice, along with a metallic edge, even from this distance, as if the air itself were hammered into being.
“His car’s here,” Owen states, binoculars steady in his hands. He chews his upper lip as he watches the house—a small, irritating tic that lodges in my mind and makes my fist tighten.
What can I do? He’s got disgusting habits and a punchable face, and it’s hard not to imagine smashing my fist into it.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Estella says from my side. “It’s like you’re the only one with functioning eyeballs.”
He drops the binoculars for a beat before clicking his tongue. “No movement. Chimney’s cold. Shed’s... I can’t see much from here.”
“Then let’s go check it and end this,” she suggests, her voice sharp.
She steps forward, ready, but he moves in front of her, blocking her path. “Will you stop being so fucking annoying, Iris?” he snaps. “What did I say? Don’t get in my way if you and your partner don’t want to get hurt.”
Estella takes a theatrically reluctant step back and paints her face with mock fear. “Learned that line from one of your favorite movies?” she shoots back. “And no, saying my name louder and more times doesn’t make you more intimidating.”
The wind slides past us again, raising a skeleton clatter from the trees, and the house watches us with its blank, glassy eyes while the tension thickens.
“You know what?” he begins, and the binoculars slam into the nameless man’s chest. He flinches, fingers scrambling for the strap. “I don’t want to think anymore.”
“It’s okay, you never do,” she snarls, planting the smirk on my face like she’s pulling a curtain apart, letting the light amusement spill out.
He shoves her with his shoulder, and she bites her lower lip in disgust. The motion sends a hot, corrosive knot down my ribs.My fist tightens, nails biting into the bandage wrapped around my palm.
