We looked happy and whole, like people who believed they had a future.
I stared at it until my vision blurred. Until my throat ached from not making a sound.
Then I turned it face-down, locked it away with the others, and poured another drink.
16
OPHELIA
The helicopter touched down a little after zero two hundred hours.
I knew the exact time because I’d been staring at my phone since we lifted off from Greymarch, watching the minutes crawl past like they meant something. Like tracking them might help me understand how my entire world had collapsed in the span of thirty minutes.
One moment, I’d been tangled in silk sheets between two men who brought me greater pleasure than I dreamed possible. The next, Kiernan’s phone had buzzed on the nightstand. He’d left the room. And when he returned?—
The rotors wound down with a whine that scraped along my nerves. Oliver’s hand found mine in the darkness of the cabin, and I squeezed back just as hard. We hadn’t spoken since Greymarch. There were no words for this. No framework I could apply, no logic that would make it make sense.
Kiernan had looked at us like we were strangers. Like the last twelve days hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t held and commanded us.
You’re leaving. Tonight.
When the helicopter door slid open, cold Scottish air rushed in, carrying the smell of rain and industrial exhaust. A figure waited on the tarmac—tall, broad-shouldered, face cast in shadow by the dim security lights.
I recognized him from Thorned Thistle. Rafe Harding—head of security for the club, and one of the founding partners. We’d barely exchanged ten words with him during our visits. He’d been a presence in the background, watchful and silent.
Callen said something to him as we climbed out—a quick exchange I couldn’t hear over the fading noise of the rotors. Then Callen returned to the cockpit, and the helicopter lifted off, leaving us behind with a man who clearly had no intention of explaining anything.
The concrete was slick beneath my feet, and Rafe reached out to steady me when I stumbled. I’d thrown on clothes in a daze before we left Greymarch—jeans, a jumper, whatever my hands had found first.
“This way.” Rafe’s voice contained no warmth, no sympathy, no acknowledgment that he was shepherding two people whose lives had mysteriously imploded. He turned and walked toward a squat concrete building at the edge of the landing pad.
Oliver followed—a solid presence, the only thing grounding me to this moment. His hand brushed mine, and I reached for his.
The building turned out to be a safe house. I recognized the type at once—high security, minimal comfort, the kind of place Unit 23 used for witness protection or agents who’d been compromised. Reinforced doors. No windows on the ground floor. The faint hum of electronic countermeasures in the walls.
Rafe led us through a sterile corridor and into a common room that looked like it had been designed by someone who’d read about furniture but never actually sat on any. Gray sofa. Gray chairs. A kitchen area with a coffeemaker that probably dispensed something technically containing caffeine. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly pallor.
“You’ll be in an apartment on the second floor.” Rafe gestured vaguely. “You’ll be safe here.”
“Safe from what?” Oliver’s voice sounded rough and raw. Tension coiled in his shoulders as he stepped forward, every line of his body betraying the effort it took not to grab Rafe and shake answers out of him. “What the hell is going on? Why did Kiernan?—”
“I don’t have any answers for you.”
“What the hell?”
Rafe’s expression didn’t change as he led us to the lift. Stone would have shown more emotion. “Kiernan’s orders. You’re safe here. That’s what matters.”
“That’s not good enough.” My voice came out steady, controlled—utterly at odds with the chaos churning inside me. “We deserve an explanation.”
“I’m not in a position to give you one.” Rafe met my eyes, and something flickered there. Regret, maybe. Or exhaustion. “Get some sleep. There’s food in the kitchen. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
He turned toward the door.
“Rafe.” Oliver’s voice stopped him. “You know something. I can see it.”
Rafe stood with his hand on the door handle, facing away from us. “Whether I do or not doesn’t change anything. I’m following orders.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
