Arrange the slices on two wooden boards. Lay prosciutto on some. Crumble blue cheese, drizzle balsamic, add a crack of black pepper.
Tapas style. Simple. Fast. Professional.
The smells ground me. Pepper. The sharp tang of aged cheese. The sweet burn of balsamic reduction.
I can fix this. I can make this right.
I carry the boards back to the living room. The men are seated now. Around the ottoman. The tension hasn't lessened. If anything, it's thicker. Heavier.
I set the boards down carefully. Then I crouch beside the blind one. Keep my voice low. Soft.
"The board is right in front of you," I say quietly. "Blue cheese with balsamic on your left. Prosciutto on your right."
He goes completely still. Every muscle locked.
I straighten up.
The other two are staring at me. The older one's expression is unreadable. The big one looks surprised. Intrigued. Something else I can't name.
Heat crawls up my neck. Did I do something wrong?
"I'm sorry," I say automatically. "I should go."
I grab my bag from where I dropped it near the door. Shove my earphones into the front pocket. My fingers fumble with the zipper.
Then I walk toward the door. Not running. Not quite.
The lock clicks behind me. The hallway is fluorescent bright after the darkness of the apartment. I squint against the sudden light.
I lean against the wall. Let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
That was wrong. All of it. The tension. The way they looked at each other. The way they looked at me. The silence that felt like a threat.
It’s done. Over. I don't have to see them again. A strange moment I can forget about as soon as I get home and collapse into bed.
5
ARTAN
The door clicks shut behind her.
Silence floods the apartment. Not the clean kind. The kind that settles heavy in your chest and makes you aware of your own breathing. The kind that has texture and weight.
She's gone, but the room hasn't returned to normal. It feels disturbed. Charged. Changed.
Erion hasn't moved from his chair. He's leaning back, hands resting on the armrests, eyes locked on Luan. The posturing is gone. The provocations. The testing. He's not playing games anymore. He's made a decision. I can see it in the way his shoulders have settled. The way his jaw has loosened. The way his entire body has shifted from coiled tension to something more deliberate.
More dangerous.
"You're blind."
The words land soft. Matter-of-fact. No mockery in his tone. No sympathy either. No triumph. Just acknowledgement. Simple. Direct. Undeniable.
"Temporarily." Luan's voice is low. Controlled. A growl held back by force.
The room goes completely still.
My pulse kicks up. Not panic. Calculation. My mind shifts into threat assessment mode automatically. Can we trust him to keep this quiet? What leverage does he gain from this knowledge? What happens if we can't contain it? How fast does information like this spread through the networks?
