“It's already complicated,” I counter.
“Then don't make it worse.”
The advice is sound. Practical. Exactly what I would tell someone else in my position if they were foolish enough to pursue a civilian doctor with no understanding of the world I operate in and no defenses against what happens to the people within reach of me.
But the warning is irrelevant because I’ve already made the decision. I made it the moment I intercepted her after the speech, asked her to dance, and realized that watching her walk away felt intolerable in a way I can't rationalize.
“I'm going to see her again,” I tell him.
Mikel’s expression doesn’t change, but his posture shifts slightly, a subtle adjustment that tells me he’s reassessing. “When?”
“Soon.”
“Define soon.”
“I'll contact her tomorrow.”
He exhales through his nose, the sound neither approval nor disapproval. “You're certain about this?”
I meet his eyes without hesitation. “Yes.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he fixes me with the look that precedes every warning I've ever received from him. “If you're going to do this, do it right. She doesn't belong in our world and dragging her into it will destroy her.”
“I'm aware.”
“Are you?” His voice drops lower, the question striking with more force than an accusation. “Because from where I'm sitting, you're already thinking about ways to keep her close, and that means involving her whether you intend to or not.”
He's not wrong. The thought has already formed, taking shape before I could stop it. Keep her near. Protect the life she's built. Ensure that the threats circling my world never reach hers. It’s irrational, possessive, and dangerous for both of us.
I don’t care.
“I won't let anything happen to her,” I reply quietly.
Mikel leans back again, a hand passing over his face before dropping to his thigh. “You can't guarantee that.”
“No,” I agree. “But I'll make it as close to certain as I can.”
He holds my gaze for a moment before pushing to his feet, the conversation finished whether I'm ready for it to end or not. “Then you'd better hope she's stronger than she looks.”
I watch him move toward the door, his footsteps unrushed. He pauses before leaving, glancing back over his shoulder. “Leo's downstairs. He'll drive you back.”
“Tell him to wait,” I instruct. “I'm not finished yet.”
Mikel doesn't argue. He simply nods once and disappears through the door, leaving me alone again with the silence and the memory of storm-gray eyes that followed my every movement, assessing without asking permission.
I remain seated for several more minutes, allowing the ache in my ribs to fade into background noise while my thoughts organize themselves into clarity. The gala continues below, the sounds of conversation and music drifting up through the floor in muted waves that remind me I still have obligations to fulfill before the night ends. But the thought of returning to that crowded ballroom and engaging in the scripted pleasantries that mean nothing and accomplish less feels hollow now. Because I've spent an hour with Dr. Rowan Hale, and everything else pales in comparison.
I push to my feet slowly, testing my balance before committing my full weight. The pain flares again, more intense this time, and I press my hand against my side until it subsides into tolerable discomfort. The wound is healing, but healing takes time, and time is a resource I've never had patience for.
I move toward the elevators, my stride adjusted to avoid further aggravating the injury. The doors open immediately when I press the button, the interior empty and waiting. I step inside and press the button for the ground floor, watching the numbers descend as the elevator carries me back toward the noise and expectations I've been avoiding all night.
When the doors open again, the ballroom greets me with a wall of sound. Laughter, music, the clink of glasses, and the rustle of expensive fabric, all of it noise layered over choices that will not remain confined to this night.
The next morning is cold, winter hanging over Charlotte with a chill that seeps through the windows and lingers in the building. I stand in my office on the twentieth floor of Sovarin Biomedical's headquarters, staring out at the city below while steam rises from the tea I haven't touched. The skyline stretches gray and muted beneath overcast skies, the streets below already clogged with morning traffic that moves in sluggish waves. My phone sits on the desk behind me, Rowan’s number already entered and waiting.
I've been standing here for twenty minutes, debating whether reaching out this soon constitutes pursuit or impatience. The distinction matters less than it should, but old habits persist. I've built an empire on restraint, knowing when to advance and when to withdraw, and reading situations with the same discipline I apply to negotiating contracts and eliminating threats. This situation defies every instinct I've honed over three decades.
I turn from the window and return to my desk, lowering myself into the chair with care that's become second nature. The wound protests less this morning, the inflammation finally responding to the antibiotics and rest I've forced myself to accept. Another week and the discomfort will fade entirely, leaving only a scar where Rowan's hands pressed when she refused to let me bleed out in that alley.
