Her eyes flash. "If you're going to get my son, I'm coming."
"No."
The word is final.
She steps closer, defiance radiating off her. "You don't get to decide that."
I turn fully then, letting my anger bleed into the air between us.
"Yes," I contradict her quietly. "I do."
"That's not fair."
"This isn't about fair."
Her voice drops. "You don't get to disappear again."
Again withagain. The word lands deep, scraping something raw. But I'm too angry to care or second-guess her words. "I'm not disappearing, I'm going to get our son." That stills her, but I can't help but jab, "And your husband." That stops her completely. Because she understands what I'm willing to walk into to bring them back.
"You're not coming," I continue. "You stay alive. You dig. You don't become another variable I have to control."
"And if I don't listen?" she challenges.
I step closer, lowering my voice until it cuts. "Then you become a liability too. I don't carry liabilities into war."
Her jaw tightens. She hates this version of me. Too bad. It's the only one she'll get to see from now on. I turn away, reaching for the panel, for the familiar click of control?—
"No."
The word snaps like a gunshot. I freeze.
"You don't get to do that," she contests. Her voice isn't loud, but it's worse for it, tight, shaking, pulled from somewhere deep. "You don't get to decide everything and walk away like the rest of us are just… debris."
I turn back slowly.
"What did you think this was?" I ask, my voice already rising. "A conversation? A negotiation?"
She doesn't answer fast enough. That's a mistake. I take one step toward her. Then another. The air changes. Even I feel it, the way the room tightens when I stop pretending restraint is a choice instead of a discipline.
"You're standing in my territory," I continue, voice dropping, gaining weight. "In my house. Wearing my clothes. Telling me how this is going to go." Her chin lifts, defiant, but I see it, theflicker of awareness. The moment she realizes I'm not the man she used to argue with. I am the man men fear.
"You think you get a vote because you're angry?" I snap. "Because you're scared? Because you finally decided to stop being polite?" I'm right in front of her now. Too close. My shadow is swallowing hers. "This isn't a democracy," I add quietly. "It's not a court. It's not your father's office, where words get work done." I lean down just enough to capture her gaze. "This is my world."
Her breath stutters. She doesn't step back. Brave. Stupid. Both.
"You don't get to raise your voice at me," I continue, low and lethal. "You don't get to issue demands. And you don't get to mistake my restraint for permission."
Her hands curl into fists at her sides. "You don't scare me."
The lie is immediate. Her posture says otherwise. The way her shoulders tense. The way her breathing turns shallow. The way her eyes track me instead of holding my gaze. She's afraid. The realization lands hard, and to my surprise, it brings no satisfaction. No triumph. Just something dark and uncomfortable twisting low in my chest. I don't like it. Not the fear itself. The reason for it.
I step closer anyway, crowding her space until the wall is at her back and there's nowhere left to retreat. I don't touch her—not yet—but the threat of it hums in the air between us, unmistakable. She swallows. There it is.
Naked fear.
And damn it, some weak, buried part of me wants to ease it. To tell her she's safe. That I won't cross that line. I crush that impulse instantly. She needs to be afraid of me. After what she's done. After what she took. I brace one arm against the wall beside her head, close enough that she can feel the vibration ofit, close enough that escape is no longer an option. "Don't insult me," I warn quietly. "I can see it."
Her jaw tightens. She doesn't look away. Brave. Or reckless.
