He opens the door, ushers me inside.
The place is empty, but lived-in: furniture that looks expensive but not new, art on the walls, kitchen counter littered with old mail and a bottle of scotch. There’s a fireplace, logs stacked and ready, but no fire.
He drops the bags at the door, shrugs off his coat, and stares at me like he’s expecting me to bolt.
I don’t. Curiosity wins and I head to the stack of mail and catch a name.Noah Cross.Means nothing to me, but I file it away to ask when Briar is in a better mood.
He rubs a hand over his face, then gestures for me to come and sit. I do, sinking into a leather chair that hugs my hips and makes my ass twinge. He pours us both a drink, neat, hands me a glass. I take it, the weight of the crystal cold and strange in my palm.
We drink in silence. The scotch burns, but it’s a good burn.
After a while, he sits across from me, legs spread wide, hands folded between his knees.
He studies me, and for the first time, I feel like he’s seeing me—not just as a problem to solve, but as a person.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I shrug, mouth full of smoke and heat. “I don’t know. That I’m alive? That I’m not sure if I want to stay that way?”
He snorts, then nods. “Fair.”
Another silence.
Finally, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You did good last night. And today. Most people would have cracked.”
I laugh, short and sharp. “You haven’t seen me crack yet.”
He grins. “Maybe tomorrow, then.”
We sit like that, the two of us, alone in a house that feels more like a bunker than a home. I want to ask him to come closer, but I don’t. I want to tell him I’m scared, but I know he already knows.
So I just sit, and drink, and watch him through the amber haze.
Outside, the world is ending.
In here, it’s just the two of us.
I can live with that.
At least for one more night.
The next morning we’re off again. Before the sun rises, we’re already gone. Heading to some unknown location that Briar swears is safe.
He drives like the SUV is an extension of his body, every lane change and acceleration precise. We’ve been on the road for hours, the only lights outside a dull red glow from the dash and the occasional stutter of distant tail-lights on the highway. I let my eyes close in the passenger seat, thinking maybe if I feign sleep, my brain will finally power down. Instead, my mindloops back to the scene at the penthouse—the casual, offhand violence of him killing those men; the way he ordered me to pack as if it was always going to end like this.
I must drift off, because I snap back to consciousness when the phone rings, piercing the warm, hushed dark inside the car. My body locks up before I even register the sound. Briar flicks the phone from the cupholder, puts it on speaker.
“Harrington,” he says. No warmth, no greeting. His other hand tightens on the wheel until the knuckles go white.
The voice that answers is genderless and cold. It’s like someone taught a computer how to be disappointed in you. “Mr. Harrington. This is the Director.”
My skin crawls.
Briar keeps his eyes on the road, jaw set. “Go ahead.”
The Director ignores him, or maybe doesn’t hear the edge in his tone. “Your assessment of the Thompson liability was due hours ago. Instead, we have a report of two Enforcement agents missing after visiting your residence. In addition, Internal noticed some irregularities in your initial intake logs. Would you care to explain?”
Briar’s voice is smooth as glass. “The asset has been remanded. The Enforcement agents were unnecessary. I’ll handle the rest personally.”
