My pulse does something inconvenient.
I'm pressed against the wall like that's going to save me, five-foot-six of kindergarten teacher in hiking boots and fleece. He’s got a gun, training, and the kind of easy stillness that says he's done this before.
But he doesn't shoot.
He doesn't even raise the weapon.
Instead, he smiles—a quick, crooked thing that transforms his face completely. The danger doesn't disappear, but it shifts. Becomes something else. Something that makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
"Hi, sweetheart. I'm the good guy."
His voice is a low rasp, roughened by whatever he just did to the men in my living room. It shouldn't sound like that. Like honey and gravel. Like something I want to hear again. It carries a weight Derek’s never had—an absolute, unshakeable authority that isn't just a protocol. It’s a command.
Focus. Armed stranger. Possible threat. Stop noticing his voice.
His voice is lighter than it should be.
Casual. Like he breaks into kill sites before breakfast on a regular basis, and this is just another Tuesday.
"The—" My voice comes out rusty, unused. "The agents?—"
"Taking a nap." He scans the room as he talks, cataloging threats, exits, and details. "They'll wake up with headaches and a lot of explaining to do. Well. Travis will. Derek's going to need a hospital." His eyes land on me again, sharp and assessing. "You're Evangeline Sinclair."
Not a question. He knows who I am.
"Who are you?"
"Riot. Guardian HRS." He says it like it should mean something. It doesn't. "The short version is that Agent Moreau is dead, the guys in your living room work for the people who killed him, and we've got about four minutes before their friends show up wondering why they missed their check-in."
The news of Moreau hits hard. My breath hitches, a sharp, cold spike of grief and terror driving into my lungs. Moreau. My only real lifeline, the only person in the system who looked at me like a human being instead of a tactical problem. Dead.
It isn’t just a blow; it’s a gut-punch of confirmation that the floor has officially dropped out from beneath my feet.
"I don't—how do I know you're?—"
"You don't." He holsters the pistol—a deliberate choice, hands visible, less threatening. "You've got no reason to trust me. I'm a stranger with a gun who just dropped your protection detail. For all you know, I'm worse than they are."
"Are you?"
That crooked smile again. "Sweetheart, I'm a lot of things, but worse than men who get paid to murder kindergarten teachers isn't one of them." He takes a step back, giving me space. "Here's what I know: you've been in this cabin for five days. The men guarding you stopped pretending to be friendly around day three. You've been counting ceiling knots and figuring out escape routes because you already know something's wrong."
My breath catches.
"You're smart. You're scared. And right now, every instinct you've got is screaming that you can't trust anyone." He holds my gaze, and underneath the easy charm, there's something else. Something steady. "But your instincts also got you through fivedays in a kill site without tipping off the guys holding you. So maybe trust your instincts one more time."
Four minutes. Maybe less now.
I think about Derek's flat eyes. Travis checking the window like he was waiting for an order. The way they stopped calling me Evie on day three.
I think about Agent Moreau, who seemed kind, who promised me this would be over soon. Dead now. Staged suicide.
I think about Sera and Rosie, who don't know where I am, who probably think I'm dead already.
And I think about Daniel—Daniel who told me I was paranoid, dramatic, too much—and how the only time I've ever been wrong is when I didn't listen to myself.
The stranger called Riot is watching me. Patient. Not rushing, even though every second costs us.
You don't know him.Daniel's voice, one last time.You can't trust someone you don't know.
