“But you’re not letting me.”
A faint crease appeared between his brows, not irritation but something closer to conflict.
“Eliza.”
“So, I am a prisoner,” I stated, hearing the sharpness in my own voice and hating how much I meant it.
“I’m not actually working for you. I’m being transported to your prison.” The sigh that came from him felt far more weighted than the last. Then the light turned green, and the car moved forward.
He regarded me steadily, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. For a moment, I wondered if I had pushed too far, if this was where calm civility ended and something far colder took its place.
Instead, he exhaled once through his nose, almost a quiet laugh.
“You are remarkably dramatic.”
I swallowed hard and snapped,
“Am I wrong?”
The café was nearly alongside us now. I could see the car's reflection in the glass as we passed. He held my gaze for a long second more, then reached forward with measured calm and pressed a discreet button along the console. The privacy screen slid down with a soft mechanical hum, revealing the driver’s silhouette beyond.
“Pull over by the café,” he instructed evenly.
“Miss Shadowmere would like to step out.” The formality of it startled me, but not more so than the order he just gave to release me from his grasp.
“Very well, my Lord,” the driver replied with a respectful nod.
The screen rose again, sealing us back into our private cocoon. The car eased smoothly toward the curb, stopping directly outside the café as though this had always been the intended destination.
I had not expected him to agree.
I reached for the handle, then hesitated, glancing back at him.
“I assume you have my number,” I said, brushing my fingers again over the edge of the bandage, suddenly aware of how small that movement must look to him. He smirked before granting me a small nod.
“Text me the address. I’ll meet you there once I’ve had coffee and something to eat,” I told him, and I wondered if he believed me…I wondered if I believed myself.
But then his eyes dipped briefly to my hand again before returning to my face. The corner of his mouth curved, slow and knowing, as if I had just said something far more amusing than I intended.
“Of course,” he replied.
No protest. No correction. No insistence.
Which unsettled me more than refusal would have.
Regardless, I stepped out onto the sidewalk, cool air rushing against my skin and clearing the artificial stillness of the car from my lungs. The door closed behind me with a soft, decisive click.
I turned and stepped into the café, greeted instantly by warmth and sound. The hiss of steam wands, the scent of roasted beans, and the low murmur of conversation layered over clinking cups had me relaxing. People brushed past me without recognition or concern, wrapped in their own mornings, having no clue what had just happened.
What I had just escaped.
I joined the queue, my shoulders gradually lowering as the normalcy of it all began to settle over me. I flexed my bandaged hand absently, pressing at the edge again, grounding myself in something tangible. I also resisted the urge to immediately look back but eventually, I glanced toward the café window, searching for some sign of movement outside.
Moments later, the car pulled away from the curb, merging seamlessly into traffic until it disappeared beyond the intersection, and relief bloomed slowly through my chest.
Maybe Bo had overestimated him. Maybe I had.
The line moved forward. I checked my phone.
