He freezes with the shirt half on, muscles flexing as he twists just enough to glance at me.
“Something funny?” he asks, voice low.
I school my face, shove the laugh down. “No.”
His eyes linger on me a second longer, like he heard the joke anyway, then he finishes pulling the shirt on. It clings to his chest, smoothing the images into something hidden but not gone.
“I have things I need to do,” I say, fingers tightening around the phone. “I can’t just… stay here all day.”
Things like check on my crew. Make sure no one’s bleeding out in an alley. Make sure Gabriel hasn’t decided to make an example out of one of them because I vanished.
“Beda.” He says it like a warning. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I can’t disappear.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “People are going to notice.”
“Good.” His mouth thins. “Let them notice. Let them wonder why you’re suddenly not available to be their punching bag.”
“It’s not like that.” The protest is automatic. Hollow. Even I don’t believe it.
His gaze flicks to my ribs, where the fabric shifts every time I breathe. “Your ribs are fucked. You stay here until you heal.”
I take a careful breath, ignoring the ache. “They don’t hurt any worse than usual.”
His brows draw together. “That’s not the assurance you think it is.”
“I got enough rest. I’m good now.” I push the words out, like if I say them with enough conviction my body will magically obey.
He just looks at me.
Stares for so long the air starts to crackle. For so long I start to fidget, shifting my weight, tugging at the hem of the shirt. His eyes are flat, unblinking, some calculation ticking behind them I can’t read.
“They’re new,” I blurt, for no good reason. I hold up the phone slightly, like that explains anything. “The… phone. The clothes. The… everything. You had this ready?”
His jaw works once. “Yeah.”
“How long have you been—”
“Doesn’t matter.” He cuts me off. “What matters is you’re not leaving.”
My stomach rolls.
He nods toward the door again, final. “You’re gonna eat. Then you’re gonna relax. I’ll be back.”
That snaps something inside me.
“No.” The word rips out before I can leash it. “If you’re leaving, I get to leave.”
His head tilts, slow and dangerous. The room feels smaller. Quieter.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
He takes one step toward me, the air shifting with him.
“Beda,” he says, voice smooth as a blade, “that’s not how this works.”
I don’t back down.
Even though every instinct I’ve honed over the years is screaming at me to yield, to bend, to make myself smaller until the threat passes.
