His gaze drifts to my mouth. Back to my eyes. Like he’s fighting a war inside his own head. “I don’t like you being involved in any of this,” he admits. “You didn’t ask for it.”
My heart squeezes. “Neither did you.”
His thumb brushes the side of my hand—barely a touch, but it lights up my skin like a spark.
“I’m going to end it,” he says. Not as a promise. As a plan. “Whoever is doing this. Whoever wants your work. Whoever thinks they can touch your life.”
My breath catches. “And Evan?”
The muscle in his jaw jumps. “Especially him.”
There it is again—that possessive edge. That jealousy he’s not trying to hide.
It’s absurd. It’s inconvenient.
It makes my stomach flutter anyway.
I pull my hand back slowly, not because I don’t want him touching me, but because if I let myself sink into this moment too far, I might forget we’re in danger.
“Okay,” I say softly. “So… tomorrow we keep digging.”
Crewe nods. “Tomorrow we keep digging.”
I stand, gather the plates, and move to the sink. My hands are steady, but my thoughts aren’t.
Behind me, Crewe rises. He comes close—not touching, but near enough that I feel his heat at my back. Like my body recognizes him the way it recognizes sunlight after too much winter.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t have to.
Because I can feel the question in the air between us.
And the truth underneath it:
Whatever this is between us… it’s getting harder to pretend it’s just circumstance.
I turn off the faucet and face him.
His eyes drop to my mouth again.
My heart pounds.
Outside, the storm howls.
Inside, Crewe Hawthorne watches me like I’m something he’s already decided to keep.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, my fear shifts—not gone, not cured, but… steadied.
Because I’m not alone in the dark.
Not tonight.
Not anymore.
NINE
CREWE
