I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be respecting boundaries and the careful distance I maintain between my world and civilians who don’t belong in it. I should be focused on the fractures forming beneath my organization. I should be planning retaliation, not protection. Instead, I keep my eyes on the monitor as Rowan’s car disappears from view, already counting the minutes until she reaches her apartment.
She believes she’s going home to rest, but I know better. She’s walking deeper into a danger she doesn’t yet understand, and until she does, I’ll make certain nothing reaches her without going through me first. I lean back in my chair and press two fingers against the scar across my ribs, the one she treated without realizing it would tether her to my world. The motion is automatic now, a habit that surfaces when tension builds too high or when thoughts of her intrude past my defenses.
Mikel stands near the window with his back to the light. He’s been silent since I asked him to compile the surveillance report, which means he disapproves but won’t argue unless I push him to speak.
I close the laptop and redirect my attention to the papers spread across my desk. Financial reports. Contracts. Legitimate business that requires my signature and attention. None of it holds my focus the way the question of Rowan's safety does.
“Anything unusual in recent internal activity?” I ask without looking up.
Mikel turns from the window. His voice is low, his accent thicker than usual. “Alexei Morozov. Died three weeks ago. Suspicious circumstances. Ties to recent instability.”
I set down the pen and meet his eyes. “Continue.”
Mikel crosses the room and places a file on my desk. The cover is unmarked, but I recognize its importance before I open it. He doesn’t give me files unless they matter.
“Alexei Morozov,” he repeats. “Admitted to Charlotte Memorial Emergency Department. Trauma. Multiple internal injuries. Time of death logged at 0342 (3:42 A.M.). Attending physician: Dr. Rowan Hale.”
The connection crystallizes with unforgiving clarity. Rowan didn’t cross my path by accident. She intersected it with unfinished business that has nothing to do with chance and everything to do with danger she doesn’t yet comprehend fully.
I open the file and scan the medical report. Blood loss. Organ failure. Attempts at resuscitation. The clinical language doesn’t hide the violence that brought him into that room or the desperation that kept him alive long enough to speak.
“What did he know?” I ask.
Mikel's expression doesn’t change. “Enough to become a liability. He ran courier work for the inner circle. Access to communications. Movement patterns. Strategic meetings.”
I close the file and push it aside. My jaw tightens as the implications lock into place. Alexei was positioned to observe, carry information, and witness conversations that should haveremained contained. If he spoke before he died and gave Rowan fragments she was never meant to hear, then she became a witness before she understood what she was witnessing.
In my world, loose ends don’t endure. They’re eliminated. Erased. Removed before they can become threats.
I stare at my phone where her name glows in my recent calls and make a decision that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with survival.
“Bring her here,” I tell Mikel.
He doesn’t move immediately. His eyes remain on me, reading the space between what I uttered and what I mean.
“She’ll resist,” he points out.
“She will,” I agree. “But she’ll come.”
Mikel nods once and leaves the office without further comment. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I’m alone again with the surveillance footage, the medical report, and the knowledge that Rowan's life is in danger because she tried to save one of my men.
I reach for my phone and call her. She answers on the third ring. Her voice is cautious and tired enough that I become acutely aware of my own breathing. “Kiren.”
“I need to see you,” I tell her without preamble. “There is information you need to hear, but not over the phone.”
The silence grows between us. I can hear her breathing andpicture the way her mouth tightens when she’s trying to decide whether to trust me.
“I don't think that's a good idea,” she finally answers.
“Rowan, this isn’t a request,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “I’m sending a car. It will arrive in twenty minutes.”
“You can't just order me around,” she counters, and the edge in her tone reminds me of the way she told me to leave the hospital bay two days ago.
“I’m not ordering you,” I correct. “I’m telling you that your life is in danger and I have information that explains why. You can choose to ignore that, or you can get in the car and listen.”
Another pause. Then, reluctantly, “Fine. Twenty minutes.”
She ends the call before I can respond. I set the phone down and exhale slowly, releasing the tension that has been building since I was told of her crash. I could have lost her before I had the chance to protect her.
