I turn.
It takes maneuvering in the small space—an awkward shuffle, my hip bumping the counter, his arms shifting to give me room while staying near—but then I'm facing him. My back against the counter's edge. His arms still braced on either side of me, palms flat on the butcher block.
He's near enough that I see the amber ring around his pupils, darker at the edges. The small scar above his left eyebrow, silver against green skin, curved into a crescent. The way his jaw is tight, his whole body held still.
Ravgor.
His real name sits on my tongue. I wonder what would happen if I said it—if he'd flinch, if he'd soften, if it would crack something open between us that we couldn't close again.
I don't say it.
Not yet.
"Eden." His voice is rough.
"Yeah?"
"What do you want?"
He's not moving or leaning in, just looking at me, waiting. Letting me decide. Giving me the choice he took from me yesterday, in the living room, when he reached for me without asking.
My hand rises toward his jaw.
He doesn't move or breathe, and those amber eyes drop to my hand, track its path upward, then find my face again.
My fingertips brush the edge of his jaw—
The sound comes from outside.
Car engine. Tires on gravel.
His head snaps toward the window, and it hits him—something's wrong. His phone didn't buzz, and no warning came. For days, every car on that road has been announced before it arrived, Crow or Nova or someone sending a text, plates already run, threat already assessed.
This one wasn't.
"Get away from the window."
He doesn't wait for me to move. His hand closes around my wrist and he pulls me with him—out of the kitchen, across the living room. My feet barely keep up.
He presses me against the wall beside the front window, positioning himself between me and the glass. One hand still on my wrist. The other reaches for the side table drawer, yanks it open, and comes out with a gun.
Matte black. Compact. It's been there this whole time. I wonder how many more there are.
He lets go of my wrist and angles his head to see out without being seen.
Through the pines, I catch glimpses of a dark sedan. Not passing. Slowing.
It stops.
"Diesel." My voice comes out too high. "Who is it?"
"Don't know." He doesn't look at me. "Probably nothing."
But his phone didn't buzz, and the warning didn't come.
It's happening again.
The sedan just sits there. Engine idling. Why isn't it moving?
