Graham drillsa lock onto the window leading to the second fire escape—he did my room first—his movements efficient, his jaw locked tight as he secures my newest form of imprisonment.
I watch. Silent.
I should fight. I should argue. I should do something.
But I don’t.
Because what’s the point?
They aren’t listening. They don’t care what I think about Finn or that every word in that file just made me want to understand him more.
They want to keep me safe? Fine. Let them think they’ve won.
The drill powers down, the final screw sinking deep. Graham leans back, assessing his work, and then he turns, his gray eyes finding mine. He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t even look angry anymore.
Just determined.
“You’re not sneaking out again.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Hunter stands by the door, arms crossed, tension radiating off of him in thick, suffocating waves. Carson leans against the counter, fingers drumming against the surface, his smirk nowhere to be found.
They exchange a look, silent understanding passing between them.
Then—they leave. The door clicks shut. And I exhale. The air in the apartment is thick. I drag my fingers through my hair, my pulse still racing, my body still alive with adrenaline. My gaze flicks to the coffee table. The file is still there.
Right where I left it.
Right where they wanted it. Evidence against Finn. Proof meant to make me see him differently. To scare me.
All it did was confirm what I already knew.
Finn wasn’t born this way. He was made.
And now they’re trying to cage me the same way people tried to cage him.
I spin toward the window, fingertips brushing over the new lock. This? This is supposed to stop me? A flimsy lock to keep me contained?
I huff a laugh under my breath.
And then, despite myself—despite everything—I lift my eyes up and look.
And—he’s there.
Across the street. Standing in his window. Watching me.
My breath catches.
Finn isn’t wearing a shirt. Lean muscle shifts under his skin as he lifts his arm and braces it against the window frame, lazy and deliberate, waiting me out.
His mouth curves into a slow smirk, smug as hell, already knowing I’d look. Already certain I’d find him.
This isn’t chance. This is part of the game. Every move calculated. Every stare designed to pull me in. And he knows I’m already playing.
My fingers dig into the windowsill. I should look away. I should turn my back and prove that this lock means something.
But I don’t.
