But he still doesn’t look at me, and God it hurts.
I swallow. “Then why does it feel like you’re punishing yourself for something?”
That gets him. He glances over, just for a second, and in that flash I see it—it’s not anger, not regret. It’s fear. The deep, quietkind that settles in your bones and convinces you that anything good is temporary by nature.
“I don’t have room for this right now,” he says, softer. “For…feelings. If something goes wrong?—”
“So you’re preemptively shutting down,” I finish. “Because if you don’t let yourself have it, you can’t lose it.”
His silence is answer enough.
I turn back toward the window, jaw tight, forcing myself to breathe. I don’t regret what I said. I don’t regret loving him. What hurts is watching him shove it into a locked box and label itlater, like later is guaranteed.
“We can save Cameron and Leyla,” I say quietly, “and still be human.”
He says nothing.
The safehouse comes into view, brick and unremarkable, and he pulls to the curb like it’s just another stop on the list. Just another task.
But when he kills the engine, his voice drops, rough around the edges. “I meant it when I said everything’s fine.”
I look at him then, really look at him. “I know you believe that,” I say. “I just don’t.”
He finally meets my eyes, something conflicted flickering there before he looks away again.
We get out of the car and head toward the door, heading inside to what could only be seen as our downfall.
And even though he’s only a few steps ahead of me, it feels like he’s already miles away—lost somewhere between duty and fear, carrying love like it’s another thing that might get someone hurt.
I don’t know how to pull him back yet.
But I know I’m not letting go. He’s right in this instance that we need to focus on saving our best friends and getting to the bottom of this.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
UNRAVEL
THE WHISPERING KILLER
Silence is a discipline.
Most people think it’s empty, something to be filled with noise, or conversation, or confession, but silence is a structure if you build it correctly. Walls. Timing. Control. For two months, I have kept Cameron and Leyla inside it, wrapped so thoroughly that the world outside forgot to listen for them.
They are still alive.
That part always surprises people when they find out—if they ever do. Being alive is more useful. Alive breathes. Alive hopes. Alive breaks slower.
The warehouse smells like dust and old oil, the kind of place that remembers work but hasn’t done any in years. I keep the lights low, never fully dark, never fully bright. Disorientation is a gentler knife when you use it properly. Cameron sits with his back against the wall, wrists cuffed in front of him, posture careful despite the stiffness that’s settled into his joints. Leylapaces when she’s allowed to, which is often enough to remind her that movement is a privilege, not a right.
They both look up when I enter.
I don’t raise my voice. I never do.
“You lasted longer than I expected,” I say mildly, folding my hands together. “That’s something to be proud of.”
Cameron’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He learned early that reacting gives me more than silence ever will.
Leyla stops pacing.
