His gaze was steady.
Unflinching.
“Did you contact my mother?” I asked.
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“Did you tell anyone about me?”
“No.”
“Then how does she know your name?”
A flicker passed through his eyes.
Not guilt.
Calculation.
“She didn’t know it before?”
“No.”
“Then someone else does.”
The words dropped heavy between us.
Alpha Mail.
The service wasn’t supposed to leave fingerprints.
No names.
No records.
No bleed-through.
But my mother asking about Cassian Locke meant something had shifted.
“Are you afraid?” he asked quietly.
I searched myself.
“No,” I said honestly.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“You should be.”
“Of you?”
“Of systems reacting when they’re disturbed.”
My chest tightened.
“You think someone is watching this?”
