His gaze holds mine, steady as a gun barrel.
“Aaron.”
Just that.
No last name. No explanation. A boundary.
“Lark,” I say automatically, then regret it instantly. My name feels like a key I just handed him.
He doesn’t react.
He already knew.
That realization lands like a stone in my stomach.
“You knew my name,” I whisper.
A beat.
“Yes.”
My pulse spikes. “How?”
He doesn’t answer. He just reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small device—black, flat, the size of a deck of cards. He flips it open. A faint green light blinks once.
My phone screen goes black.
Fully dead now.
I stare at it. “What did you just do?”
“Disabled your signal,” he says. “They can’t ping you if you’re dark.”
My throat tightens. “They—who are they?”
His eyes track the edge of the plaza again, scanning faces that look harmless.
“Not tourists,” he says quietly. “Not thieves. Not anyone who does this for quick money.”
I want to ask how he knows. I want to demand proof.
But my instincts—my carefully trained, painfully earned instincts—are already aligning with his.
Because I can feel it.
That faint feeling in the air, and goosebumps cover my body.
The sense that eyes are on me from somewhere that doesn’t want to be seen.
I draw in a slow breath. “If I go with you, what happens?”
His expression doesn’t change, but his voice lowers, rougher now.
“Your life stops being normal.”
Honesty. Brutal, unpretty.
It hits harder than comfort ever could.
