I move behind my desk, needing a barrier—any barrier. “Let’s watch the footage. I don’t want Raze getting caught in the crossfire.”
Rowe turns, and moonlight catches in his hair, making my fingers itch to brush through it like I used to. A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Right. Let’s ignore the stone on your finger.” His eyes drop to my hand. “Though it’s hard to miss.”
“Don’t. We’re not doing this.”
“No,” he says, voice laced with that dangerous calm. “I suppose we’re not.”
He moves to the desk, and I drag my chair back, putting as much distance between us as I can. Control. Restraint. Purpose. I chant it inwardly, even as my traitor heart remembers other moments just like this one, other times when moonlight traced every angle of his face.
I stare at the data crystal in Rowe’s hand. He hasn’t moved to play it yet, simply watches me with those storm-cloud eyes that see too much. Every few seconds, they flick to my face, cataloguing, waiting.
“We don’t have to watch it now,” he says softly. “Or at all if you’re not ready.”
I hate how easily he still reads me. How my armor seems invisible to him.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like I’m about to break. I’m not that fragile girl anymore, Rowe.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re not.”
The crystal presses into my hand with unexpected weight, its sharp edges biting into my skin. His fingers graze mine, whether by accident or design, I can’t tell, and lightning shoots up my arm. I jerk back, but his eyes pin me in place.
“Aria . . .” There’s a warning in his voice, or maybe aplea.
“Don’t.” I activate the crystal, letting its pale blue light bloom between us. “Just . . . don’t.”
He takes the spare chair and settles beside me. Every shift of his body seems calculated to maintain distance while still being close enough to catch me if I fall. It’s maddening, this dance we’re doing.
The lab flickers into focus, rendered in the crisp clarity of Darkmoor surveillance. Everything is as I remember it. Cold white surfaces, precisely aligned instruments, and a row of containment chambers buzzing faintly.
“There’s nothing out of place,” Rowe murmurs, sleeve brushing mine as he gestures toward a frame. “Your father’s documenting everything in triplicate.”
I lean forward, using the movement to reclaim my space. “Play it slower.”
He nods, obeying without argument, though I can feel his concern radiating off him in waves.
The footage unspools with merciless clarity: my mother slipping out early, her return nearly two hours later, my father still entombed in his research—each mundane detail preserved with the precision of a blade. But the sealed chamber where the real experiments happen remains a black box, its contents hidden even from Alexander’s security feeds.
My hands tremble as I watch them navigate their final hours—my mom’s posture taut as she reenters, my father barely glancing up from his research, the two of them moving with the ease of decades, anticipating each other’s motions, trading secret smiles. All of it preserved now in cold surveillance light, a loop of inevitability I can’t escape.
“Stop.” My voice breaks. “There. When they leave the chamber.”
Rowe’s fingers pause above the projection, but he doesn’t adjust it. Instead, he turns fully toward me. “Aria. This is a lot. Maybe weshould—”
“I’m okay.” I cut him off, eyes fixed on anything but him, refusing to remember how he found me that night at The Den, his hands steady when everything else fell apart.
My parents remain frozen on the screen, alive and unaware, a final image of what I lost framed in cold pixels.
“You haven’t slept.” It isn’t a question. Those observant eyes that can read the most dangerous creatures take in every detail of my face. “The crystals in here are powered by insomnia spells, your notes are time-stamped throughout the night, and that?” He nods toward the half-empty whiskey glass. “I doubt it’s your first.”
“Are you done analyzing me?” The words come out brittle. “Because I didn’t ask for a psychological evaluation.”
“Sorry, I’m just trying to help.”
“Play it.” I don’t mean for the desperation to bleed through, but it does. When he hesitates, I finally meet his gaze. “Or leave.”
