The silence that follows is heavier than the coyotes were. She sets the mug down slowly.
“I was dreaming,” she says.
“People don’t invent details in their sleep.”
“They do when they’re exhausted.”
I push off the counter and step closer — not threatening. Just present.
“What’s inside the diamonds?”
That lands like a dropped blade. I watch her closely. She goes very still. Her eyes don’t widen. Her breathing doesn’t spike. But something retreats behind those dark eyes.
“There’s nothing inside diamonds,” she says evenly. “That’s the point.”
She’s trying to be too smooth with her answer. I hold her gaze.
“You’re not a socialite.”
“I never said I was.”
“No,” I agree. “You didn’t.”
Whatever she’s involved in is bigger than a ballroom incident. It required extraction. It triggered pursuit. And it has something to do with clean. She steps back first. Distance. Always distance.
“You don’t know what you’re stepping into,” she says quietly.
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t.”
That’s not defiance. That’s constraint. That’s someone bound by agreement. My suspicion sharpens into something more precise.
She didn’t bring danger to Cupid City. She walked into it on purpose.
“Are you running,” I ask, “or delivering?”
That question lands harder than the others. For the first time since I met her, something like fear flickers. Not for herself, but for the implications. She looks past me toward the door, toward the ridge, toward the horizon.
“I am finishing something,” she says.
That’s not an answer. But it’s honest. And honesty can be more dangerous than lies.
I step back. Not because I trust her. But because pressing harder won’t get me what I want.
“You’re not leaving this cabin without me,” I say evenly.
“That wasn’t my plan.”
“I know.”
That’s what bothers me. Because she didn’t plan to escape. She planned to complete. Whatever that means.
I take my coffee back to the window and look out over the trees. Temporary location. Temporary containment.
But the threat isn’t temporary. And neither is she.
Chapter 7
