The question surprises him. I see it in the slight widening of his eyes, the pause before he answers.
"I don't need anything from you except for you to heal. To be safe. To exist somewhere I can find you when the fighting is done."
"That's not enough." I push myself upright, ignoring the protest of my ribs. "I spent years being passive. Being property. Letting things happen to me because I didn't have a choice. I won't do that anymore."
"Elliot—"
"I mean it." I meet his gaze, steady despite the trembling in my hands. "Whatever comes next, I want to be part of it. Not as a symbol or a cause or a thing to be protected. As a person. As your partner."
The word hangs between us.Partner. I've never used it before, never had reason to.
Jace is silent for a long moment. I watch him process, calculate, run through implications and outcomes.
Then he nods.
"Partner," he repeats. "I can work with that."
Relief floods through me. I slump back against the cushions, suddenly aware of how tense I'd been.
"Good," I say. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
"No." He leans down, presses his forehead to mine. "You're not."
We stay like that as the morning brightens around us. Two broken people in a borrowed safehouse, planning a war against the world that made them.
The others arrive an hour later carrying bags of food and a box of water bottles.
They toss bags around and we dig in as conversation starts up around me.
"Briar and Landon," he says pointing at them. "And Jinx."
"Not Jagger?"
"He went back. Couldn’t risk staying any longer. Damage control at the Ministry. Making sure Webb's story about what happened doesn't gain traction."
Briar looks different than I imagined—sharper, more polished, the kind of face that belongs in a boardroom or a courtroom. But there's something underneath the polish, a coiled tension that reminds me of Jace.
Beside him sits a taller man with messy curls and glasses, carrying a laptop bag that seems to be permanently attached to his shoulder. He looks around the farmhouse with nervous energy, taking in every detail.
Landon. The accountant who fell for a Custodian heir.
The third figure is younger than the others, compact and wiry, moving with the restless energy of someone who's never learned to be still. He has Jace's eyes—the same flat grey—but where Jace is controlled, this one seems barely contained.
Jinx. The youngest Harrison brother.
Briar's gaze finds me on the couch. Something shifts in his expression—not pity, exactly. Recognition.
"You're awake," he says. "Good. We weren't sure how long you'd be out."
"I'm harder to kill than I look."
His mouth curves. "Clearly. Webb's been underestimating you from the start."
"Webb underestimates everyone who isn't him." Jace moves to stand beside the couch, positioning himself between me and the rest. Not aggressive. Protective. "What's the status?"
"Contained, for now." Briar sheds his coat, drapes it over a chair. "Webb is claiming the facility was attacked by outside forces—rival organization, foreign agents, the usual deflections. The other Directors are skeptical, but they're giving him room to save face."
"And the evidence Landon compiled?"
