I sigh, the sound weary and sharp as I toss the cash onto the counter with a loud slap. “You make me sound like an asshole,” I complain, crossing my arms.
“Aren’t you?”
My lips twitch, and a dangerous gleam ignites in my eyes, daring him to test me. Cane only smiles—slowly and disarmingly, the kind of smile that unnerves yet invites. He steps closer, his presence folding into the space between us. His hand lands on my arm, a claim both quiet and undeniable.
“Myfavoriteasshole,” he murmurs.
For a second, amusement slices through the storm inside me. My head dips, a half-smile tugging at my lips as I shake it, pretending to hide the warmth his words leave behind. God help me, this might be one of the most genuinely kind things he’s ever said.
“I have to go,” he says after a beat, pushing past the moment before it stretches too long. “But we’ll keep in touch. Take care, Estella.”
He turns to leave, but I catch his arm before he can take a step; the fabric of his coat is rough beneath my fingers. He glances back at me, a question already alive in his eyes.
“Can I ask you for something?”
Dante hovers in my mind, uninvited and constant, like a pulse I can’t silence. His shadow has been haunting me, setting fire to thoughts I can’t put out. After Julian, I know I need to stop chasing cheap imitations and face the only thing that actually matters.
“I’m listening,” Cane says, patient but cautious.
“It’s about Dante,” I admit, chewing on my lower lip as I force the words into shape. “You have his file, right?”
“What’s this about?”
The itch of urgency crawls beneath my skin, making it impossible to stand still. “Do you?”
“Yes, I have it. He’s?—”
I press my index finger against his lips, silencing him before he can finish. His breath warms my skin, but I don’t move. “I want to read it myself,” I whisper. “Can you bring me a copy?”
When I pull my hand away, he hesitates, the calculating flicker behind his eyes tightening. “Why? I thought you knew enough to work with him.”
“It’s nothing,” I lie smoothly, though the words burn on my tongue. “He just impressed me, that’s all. I’m curious about his past.”
He holds my gaze, unblinking, the air between us tightening into a quiet standoff. I tilt my head slightly, softening my expression, letting my eyes glisten just enough, lips curving into something almost innocent.
“Please?”
A long exhale escapes him, tired and reluctant. His eyelids close as though he’s surrendering to the inevitable. “Okay,” he mutters. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Before he can change his mind, I lunge forward, smashing my chest against his in a sudden, crushing hug. My arms lock tight around him, and I squeeze until I hear the faint pop of his ribs and feel a low grunt vibrate through his chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
A sudden cough cuts through the silence from somewhere down the corridor, followed by a heavy thud that makes both of us freeze. I unwrap my arms from Cane and turn before moving toward the sound. I can feel him right behind me, his steps quick and tense.
When we reach the source of the noise, our eyes land on Julian—sprawled across the floor like a discarded puppet. His face is unnervingly calm, eyes closed as though he’s simply fallen asleep. In his limp hand rests a small, matte bottle, the kind that screams danger even before you know what’s inside. Cane’s black bag lies beside him, unzipped.
Cane snarls under his breath. “Oh, fuck me.”
“Right now?” I shoot back. “Didn’t know you were kinky like that.”
He lets out a laugh—loud, raw, teetering somewhere between genuine amusement and sheer exasperation. The sound rattles the still air as he digs into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Did he have asthma?” he asks, slender fingers flying over the screen, dialing without looking.
I shrug, watching the unmoving body on the floor. Julian doesn’t twitch, doesn’t breathe—just lies there, the serenity on his face twisted into something grotesque by the stillness of death. “How the fuck should I know? I knew him for, what, twenty minutes?” My gaze drops to the bottle glinting in his hand. “What’s even that?”
Cane glances down briefly, his tone clipped and tense. “It’s calledHush,” he says, as though naming it is enough to explain.
I arch an eyebrow, confused. He presses the phone to his ear, and as the dial tone hums faintly between us, he adds, “Bio-signal aerosol. It triggers an instantaneous vagal reflex and overdrives the system into… fatal silence.”
