Not in my house.
Not with her standing beside me, carrying proof like a weapon, eyes bright with fury and intelligence and a stubborn refusal to shut up.
I’m going to pull this whole rotten machine apart.
CHAPTER 9
JORDAN
The thing about almost dying twice in one day is that your body doesn’t know what to do with the leftover electricity.
It keeps trying to spend it, like I’m a malfunctioning machine dumping power into circuits that weren’t built to hold it. My hands won’t stop trembling unless I keep them busy. My ears keep replaying the sharp pop of gunfire and the wet, ugly sounds people make when they get hurt. My skin is too aware of everything—every brush of fabric, every change in temperature, every distant bass note from the casino floor below—like my nerves are stuck on high sensitivity and nobody bothered to install a dimmer switch.
Lonari walks beside me through the Nun’s inner corridors with the kind of calm that makes me want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he admits he’s human underneath all that control. His suit is spotless despite the chaos, black fabric fitted to his massive frame like it was stitched onto him. He smells faintly of clean soap and leather and the subtle iron note that seems fused into him, like blood is part of his chemistry.
I keep thinking about the moment the casino lights died.
My choice. My hands on the grid. The instant darkness swallowed the room and the mercenaries flinched.
Power.
Then I think about the mercenary’s face when he said Morazin is alive, and power turns to nausea.
We move past a pair of guards at a reinforced door, and Lonari gives a single nod. They open it without hesitation.
Inside is quieter, warmer. A secure suite that doesn’t try to be cute about luxury—no fake skyline window, no perfumed air designed to lull you. This room smells like polished wood, clean linen, and something faintly herbal, like someone is trying to remind the body what calm used to feel like.
Lonari shuts the door behind us. The lock clicks. The sound is small, but my spine tightens anyway.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
“You’re safe,” he says, voice low.
I laugh, sharp and shaky. “You’re adorable.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “That wasn’t a joke.”
“I know,” I say, swallowing hard. “That’s why it’s terrifying.”
He steps closer, not crowding me, but close enough that his presence fills the space between us like heat. “You want to talk?” he asks.
I blink at him. “Do I want to talk?”
“Yeah,” he says, patient in a way that feels practiced. “Or do you want to keep pretending you’re fine until you break in half?”
My mouth opens, then closes. The truth is sitting right there, heavy and unignorable.
“I nearly died again,” I say finally, and my voice cracks onagainlike my body resents the word.
Lonari’s jaw flexes. “I know.”
“You don’t,” I snap, anger flaring because anger is easier than fear. “You don’t— you weren’t the one in that room when theglass blew in. You weren’t the one watching people scramble on the floor, hearing that— that sound?—”
My throat tightens. The memory rises up like bile.
Lonari doesn’t interrupt. He just watches me, eyes steady, and somehow that makes it worse because I can’t hide behind his reaction.
