I stand in the room where my aunt held everything together. Where she raised two orphaned kids and made a home out of nothing. Where I thought I was safe.
I touch my forehead. Wince. The cut is deep. Still bleeding.
Blood drips onto the hardwood floor. The same floor where I played as a child. Where my aunt taught me to be kind. To sacrifice. To endure.
I don't know if those lessons serve me anymore.
10
ARTAN
It's nearly eleven when I get back to Luan's apartment. The day with Erion ran longer than expected. Scouting Irish territories, mapping warehouse locations, calculating risk versus reward for every potential strike. Hours of surveillance that left my shoulders tight and my patience thinner than usual.
Not terrible, exactly. Once you get past the chaos, the aggression, the constant need to provoke everyone around him, Erion is surprisingly intelligent. Strategic. The kind of mind that sees three moves ahead and plans for five. Loyal? Too soon to tell. Loyalty in this world isn't declared, it's proven. Blood and time, nothing less.
If the alliance holds, things could get interesting. But that's a big if.
I unlock the door and step inside.
Something's wrong.
The shift hits me immediately, visceral and undeniable. The apartment feels off. Disturbed. The harmony that's been building over the past few days is gone, replaced by something jagged and discordant.
I pause in the entryway, listening. My hand drifts toward my waistband automatically, fingers brushing the grip of my gun. Years of training, muscle memory older than thought.
The lights are on in the dining room, casting a warm glow that doesn't match the tension crawling up my spine.
I follow the sound I can't quite place. A soft scraping. Quiet, careful movement.
Dining room.
Lily is on the floor. Crouched down on her knees, picking up broken pieces of china with methodical precision. Her movements are tight and controlled, each gesture deliberate and careful. A bucket sits nearby, water dark and murky. The mop leans against the wall, its strings still dripping.
I stop in the doorway. Take in the scene. Broken plate. Food splattered on the wall, dried now, sauce and fragments of vegetables clinging to the cream-colored paint like evidence of violence.
"Lily? What happened? What are you doing here so late?"
She doesn't look up. Keeps cleaning, her hands moving steadily from floor to bucket, depositing shards with careful precision. Her hair falls forward, obscuring her face. A curtain. A shield.
"I didn't want to leave him alone." Her voice is steady. Too steady. The kind of calm that's held together by sheer will, by conscious effort to keep every emotion locked down tight. "But now that you're here, I can go as soon as I finish this."
The words carry weight I can't quite parse.
"Lily." I force calm into my voice. "What happened?"
She sighs, a small sound that carries too much weight. Still doesn't look up, won't meet my eyes. "Accident. Luan was frustrated. He threw his plate. It's fine. I'll get it cleaned up."
Accident.
The word doesn't fit. Luan doesn't throw plates when he's frustrated. He goes cold. Silent. Controlled. Turns inward and locks everything down until he's made of stone and ice. This kind of mess speaks to something else. Something darker. Loss of control. Rage without direction.
The kind of explosion that comes when a man pushed past his limits finally breaks.
I cross the room and squat beside her. Put my hand over hers, stopping the movement. Her fingers are cold beneath mine, trembling slightly despite the steadiness of her voice.The contrast tells me everything I need to know about the performance she's putting on right now.
She freezes but keeps her head down. Hair falling forward like armor. Like if I can't see her face, I can't see the truth.
With my free hand, I reach for her chin. Gentle. Giving her every opportunity to pull away, to refuse, to maintain the distance she's trying so hard to create. She doesn't. Doesn't move at all, just goes very still under my touch.
