The rotor blades cut through air in steady rhythm. He chose me because I’m useful. That should be the only reason that matters. So why does my pulse shift when he says it like that?
“You assume I’m on the right side,” I say.
“You wouldn’t have left Russia if you weren’t.”
The cockpit feels smaller.
“I didn’t leave for patriotism.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I meant,” he says evenly, “you left because you were done being owned.”
The words land like a blade sliding clean through silk. I don’t answer. Because he’s closer to the truth than he understands.
Below us, the terrain shifts from forest to roadway. Civilization returns in layers.
“You don’t know what this costs,” I say quietly.
“Everything costs,” he replies.
“That’s not what I meant.”
He glances at me briefly. Just long enough.
“You think I chose you because of leverage,” he says.
“Didn’t you?”
He considers that.
“No.”
The simplicity of it unsettles me.
“Then why?” I ask.
The helicopter steadies as we clear the last ridge.
“Because,” he says, voice low through the headset, “I don’t like watching predators close in.”
My fingers tighten in my lap. He means the ballroom. The elevator. The pack. Or maybe he means something else.
“You think I can’t handle them,” I say.
“I think you’ve handled them alone long enough.”
That statement hits me somewhere deep. It’s uncomfortable to admit. The skyline of Cupid City sharpens ahead of us.
“I don’t need protection,” I say automatically.
“That’s not what I’m offering.”
I turn fully toward him now.
“Then what are you offering?”
