Looking down and to the left, I notice there’s a big infinity pool and a hot tub. There’s also a terrace, and on the terrace, two men: one is Briar—shoulders set, posture like a loaded spring, blue eyes sharp even at this distance. The other is Brooks, or I assume so from the dark, tailored lines of the coat and the way he moves with a kind of practiced slowness that says “I own everything I touch, including you.”
They’re talking, but I can’t hear them. Even so, I know exactly how the conversation goes. Power speaks in silence, not in noise.
I watch them through the glass, curious about why Brooks is here.
Brooks says something, then glances up at the window. I know he sees me. He gives a little wave, too fast for mockery but too slow for real greeting. His smile is the kind you see in old paintings, right before someone poisons the wine.
Briar doesn’t look up, but I can tell he knows I’m there too. He’s got that predator’s awareness, the kind that reads the whole world with a look. He stands just a fraction too close to Brooks, body angled like he’s either about to rip his throat out or beg him for something.
I can’t tell which.
Brooks says another thing, and Briar shakes his head, almost a flinch. Then Brooks laughs, sharp and short. He pats Briar’s shoulder, then leans in close, whispers something that I want so badly to hear it aches.
Then it’s over. Brooks steps back, nods once at me through the window, and heads inside.
Briar stands there, alone, for a full minute before he turns and makes his way inside.
I step back from the window, heart pounding. I half-expect an alarm, a bullet through the glass, a command to run.
Nothing happens.
I wander the room, test the door. It’s unlocked.
The hallway is wide and almost too bright—sunlight ricochets off the snow and bounces in through the windows, making every surface sting with light. There’s a runner down thelength of the floor, hand-knotted, and the pattern is familiar. Not in the “I’ve seen this before” way, but in the way trauma repeats itself: dark blue, shot through with lines that are almost the exact color of Briar’s eyes.
I walk the hall, slow. No one stops me. I find the stairs, a spiral of steel and wood that drops two floors to a main living space the size of my old high school gym. I follow the sound of a fire, the low crackle and the faint smell of cedar. The air here is even colder, but the fire in the massive stone hearth is big enough to heat a small country.
Briar stands at the edge of the fireplace, his back to the room. He’s changed out of yesterday’s clothes—now in a thick black sweater, jeans, and boots that could probably kill a man with a single kick. He doesn’t turn when I approach, but I know he hears every step.
I pause a few feet behind him, not sure if I’m allowed closer.
He fixes it for me.
“There’s coffee on the counter,” he says. “Help yourself.”
I do. The kitchen is at the far end of the room, a marble-and-stainless monster. I pour a mug, find the cream and the sugar, and by the time I turn back, Briar is waiting for me by the windows.
I approach, the mug burning my hands.
We stand side by side, looking out at the snow and the blue sky, the silence a thing with its own mass.
“Nice place,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
He smiles, but it’s not happy. “Brooks has always liked his comfort. Even when we were kids, he couldn’t stand anything less than perfect.”
“Was he really your friend?”
He laughs, short and cold. “Friend is the wrong word. He was the only person who didn’t try to kill me during training. That makes him family, in our world.”
I sip the coffee, letting it scald my tongue before I swallow.
“So,” I say, “why did he help us?”
Briar doesn’t answer right away. He watches a bird land on the terrace railing, tilt its head, then launch itself back into the void. “Brooks likes to be owed. He likes leverage. Someday, he’ll call in the favor. For now, he gets to be the hero who saved the problem child and his pet.”
I bristle at the word, but I know he’s right. I’m not a person here, not really. Just a liability, a bargaining chip, a pawn in a game where the rules are written in code and blood.
“You okay?” he asks, softer.
