He glances over his shoulder, clocks me in the doorway and puts his phone in his pocket. His eyes drag over the borrowed shirt, then the pants, then back up to my face.
“You wear my clothes better than I do,” he says.
I make my way to the kitchen island, feet bare and cold on the tile. The counter is spotless except for two plates—porcelain, matte white, probably custom—one holds a stack of buttered toast and a single knife and the other is empty. Briar points at the stool. I sit.
He flips the eggs, and I watch the motion: precise, efficient, not a single wasted movement. I wonder how many times he’s killed someone with these hands.
Has he ever burned himself? Cut himself by accident? Is this man even human?
He doesn’t talk as he starts plating the eggs, then layering the bacon on the side.
He slides the plate across the island to me. I take it, half waiting for him to tell me this is a joke. He grabs another plate, then sits across from me, not eating, just watching.
The eggs are perfect: the yolk barely set, the whites clean and round. I eat because he expects it, and because I am starving.
He waits until I’ve finished half the bacon before he dishes himself up a plate.
He finally eats, tearing the toast in half with his hands. There’s a quiet to him now, a sense that he’s running possible situations in his head, all the ways this breakfast could end.
I want to ask a million questions, but the silence feels reverent. Instead, I stare at the crumbs and try to act like I’m not slowly panicking at the thought of being his.
The doorbell cuts through the silence. It’s not a regular chime—it’s a low, heavy buzz that vibrates up through the floor, makes the silverware on the counter shiver.
Briar stands in one smooth motion, tension rising in his body. He checks the phone, then the wall, where a thin monitor glows just above the light switch. He taps the screen and the hallway camera flickers into view.
His face changes. All that warmth from the kitchen is gone, replaced by a cold, deadly focus.
He turns to me, voice flat. “Go to the living room. Now.”
I don’t argue. I stand, nearly knock over my stool, and move, my heartbeat a staccato in my ears.
He follows, one hand pressed to the small of my back, guiding me with more force than necessary. We cross the room—three couches, a fireplace, a wall of books—straight to the far wall, where there’s nothing but a blank expanse of black glass.
He presses his palm against a spot just left of center. There’s a hiss, then a seam opens, almost invisible unless you know where to look. A panel slides away, revealing a small room.
Briar shoves me toward it, fast.
I hesitate. “What is this?”
“Get in,” he snaps, voice louder than before. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
I squeeze into the space. The air is cool, recycled, and it’s dark, except for a faint blue glow from the strip light above.
He leans in, eyes level with mine, and for the first time since last night, he looks unsure.
“Stay quiet. No matter what you hear, don’t come out. If I don’t come back, wait one hour, then follow the left wall until you reach the elevator. Leave the city and never come back. Don’t stop for anything.”
He waits for me to nod, then seals the door. The world goes silent.
It’s not pitch black—there’s just enough light to see the contours of the room, maybe three feet deep, six wide. There’s a desk with three monitors on it and a laptop, but nothing else, just the faint outline of a keypad in the wall to my left. I listen, every nerve raw, for any sound from outside.
Curious, I touch the keypad. A screen flickers on, silent at first, showing a grid of security feeds. Twelve in total, each a different angle on the penthouse: the elevator lobby, the main hall, the kitchen, even the balcony. On screen, Briar moves quietly. I watch him cross to the bookshelf, where he pulls a slim handgun from behind a row of old hardcovers. He doesn’t check the chamber; he already knows it’s loaded.
The front door buzzes again. This time, Briar answers.
He says nothing. Just pulls it open, steps back, lets them enter.
Two men, both in black. Not suits—something closer to military. The first is tall, with cropped blond hair, the kind of jaw you see in toothpaste ads. The second is smaller, eyes flat and unreadable. Both carry holstered weapons, the kind that bulge against the hip instead of the chest. No attempt to hide.
