"I want to not go insane. Walking seems like a reasonable step."
He considers me , then steps aside. "Stay close. Don't talk to anyone. Don't touch anything."
"Yes, sir." I give him a mock salute that earns me the tiniest twitch of his jaw.
The compound is bigger than I realized. From my window, I could only see the courtyard, but beyond it stretches a network of corridors, common rooms, a kitchen that smells like garlic and coffee, a medical wing with a steel door, and stairwells that descend into levels I suspect I'm not supposed to know about.
Leone walks beside me, matching my pace. Not behind. Beside. His hand rests on the gun at his hip, not gripping it, resting. Ready.
Soldiers pass us in the hallways. Every single one of them looks at me. Some glance and look away fast, like they've been warned. Others stare longer, eyes flicking between me and Leone. I can practically hear the gears turning:That's the girl. The one he moved into his room. The one who found the mole.
I keep my chin up and my mouth shut. Let them stare.
One of them, older, heavyset, with a neck like a fire hydrant, steps aside as we pass but lets his shoulder clip mine. Not hard. enough to remind me I don't belong here. I stumble a half step, and before I can even right myself, Leone stops walking.
He doesn't say a word. Doesn't raise his voice. turns his head and looks at the soldier.
The man goes white. Literally, visibly pale, like someone pulled a plug and drained the blood from his face. He backs up two full steps, mumbles something that might be an apology, and disappears around the corner so fast his boots squeak on the floor.
Leone doesn't comment. We keep walking.
But I notice his hand has moved from resting on the gun to hovering near the small of my back. Not touching, just there. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his palm through my shirt. The almost-contact is worse than the real thing. My skin prickles where his hand hovers, nerve endings firing at nothing, reaching for warmth that isn't quite there.
I want to lean back into it. I want to feel his palm press flat against my spine, his fingers spread wide, claiming the space.
I don't.
We reach a long corridor with windows on one side, overlooking an interior garden that's more concrete than green. A bench sits beneath a sad little tree that's fighting for its life in a planter box. Leone gestures toward it.
"Fifteen minutes," he says.
"Generous."
I sit. He doesn't. He stands a few feet away, back against the wall, arms crossed. Watching the corridor in both directions. Always watching.
The almost-silence is strange. Not quiet, but muffled. Distant sounds filter through: footsteps, the hum of ventilation, a phone ringing somewhere deep in the building. I close my eyes and let the space breathe around me, trying to remember what fresh air feels like.
"You haven't slept," I say without opening my eyes.
"I've slept."
"The chair doesn't count."
"It counts enough."
I open my eyes and look at him. He's leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, head tilted slightly, watching me with that expression I still can't decode. It's not blank. Not at all. There's something behind it, something he keeps leashed with the same discipline he uses for everything else.
"You could sleep in the bed," I say. "I won't bite."
"That's not the issue."
"Then what is?"
He grinds his teeth, a hiss escaping between slightly parted lips. He looks away, scanning the corridor again, and I watch the tendons in his neck shift beneath the skin. Strong neck. Strong jaw. Strong everything. The man is built like a weapon someone wrapped in a tailored suit.
"Drop it, Alexandra."
"Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable?"
