The way she says *mother* makes it clear there's no love in that word.
"Your parents are the ones who tried to marry you off to Castellano?"
Her face shuts down. Complete lockdown. Every emotion wiped clean like I hit a switch. Fuck. Too fast. Too direct. I'm shit at this.
"You don't have to answer that," I say quickly. "None of my business."
"They did." The words come out flat. Dead. "They signed the papers. Made the arrangements. Told me it was an honor to be chosen by someone so powerful." She finally moves, walking toward the couch but not sitting. "They didn't care that I said no. That I begged. That I told them I'd rather die."
The buzzing in my ear gets louder. Not the phantom noise from Kandahar. Real anger, sharp and hot.
"So, you ran."
"So, I ran." She sets the food container on the coffee table. "Took everything I'd been saving and disappeared in the middle of the night. Changed my phone. Cut everyone off. Came here because it was small and quiet and nobody knew me."
"But they found you anyway."
"They found me anyway." She wraps her arms around herself. "I don't know how. I was so careful."
I think about the men in the parking lot. Tactical pants, boots, the way they moved. Professional. Trained.
"They probably tracked your credit card," I say. "Or your car registration. Maybe both."
She goes even paler. "I paid cash for everything. Haven't used my card since I left."
"Car registration is public record. They run your plates, find out where you registered it, start looking in the area." I shrug. "It's not magic. Just resources and time."
"Oh god." She sits down hard on the couch. "I didn't think… I was so focused on not leaving a digital trail I didn't think about—"
"Most people don't." I grab the food container, head toward the kitchen. Need something to do with my hands before I say something else that sends her running. "You did better than most already. Burner phone, cash only, cutting contact. That's smart."
I hear her follow me. The kitchen is smaller than hers probably, barely room for one person, definitely not two. But she hovers in the doorway anyway.
"You sound like you know what you're talking about."
"Military." I pull plates from the cabinet. Real ones, not paper. My brother insisted when we moved in. Said eating off paper plates every night was depressing. "You learn things. About tracking people. About not being tracked."
"How long were you in?"
"Long enough." I don't talk about my time in. Not with anyone except Rampage, and even that's mostly silence that understands itself. "Got out three years ago."
I can feel her watching me. Studying. Trying to figure out what kind of man invites a stranger into his apartment.
Trying to figure out if she's safe here.
Fair question. I'm asking myself the same thing.
I split the food between two plates. There's enough for both of us. Chicken in a lemon-butter sauce that smells incredible, pasta, roasted vegetables that actually look appetizing.
When's the last time someone cooked for me?
Never. The answer is never.
My brother can barely boil water. The military fed me slop. And since I got out, I've been living on protein shakes and whatever doesn't require more than a microwave.
"You didn't have to make all this," I say, handing her a plate.
"I like cooking." She takes it like she's afraid our fingers might touch. "It helps me think."
