No.
Yes.
My chest tightens so fast it burns.
If I stay, I become something that can be used against him. If I go, maybe Gabriel loses his easiest route in. Maybe Maksim can focus on the war instead of guarding me like a second front.
He’ll befurious.The thought lands immediately. Furious enough to tear the city apart looking for me.
Which means I can’t leave a trace. Can’t leave a note. Can’t leave anything that gives him something easy to follow before I’m gone.
I hate that my brain already knows how to do this.
I cross to the dresser and pull on clothes fast. Jeans. Black tank. Boots. Jacket. Then I go to the closet.
Hands moving now. Faster than my head can keep up with. I pack jeans, black sweater, two shirts, underwear, socks, my knife. I grab myhandgun, take an extra magazine, some toiletries. Cash from the back of the drawer where I keep emergency money Maksim gave me.
Money.
My escape cash is still at my old place.
Fuck.
I shove the drawer shut and one of his shirts gets caught.
My fingers brush the fabric. I stop. Just for a second.
It still smells like him.
My throat tightens. I jam it back in too hard, like that fixes anything.
This isn’t running fromhim.
It’s leaving before I become the crack in something he built. Because Gabriel was right about one thing, and I hate him for it. Maksim’s men do not trust me.
Some tolerate me. Some respect the mark. Some respect him enough to keep their mouths shut.
That is not the same as belonging.
And if I stay long enough to become the thing that makes his own people question him—
I can’t do that.
Not to him.
Not to me.
I sit on the edge of the bed for one dangerous second, bag open beside me, and press my palms to my thighs until the wave passes.
He asked me to marry him in the woods with his hand on my tattoo and his body still shaking from coming apart inside me. He has carved me into his life in every language but one. I laugh once under my breath. Of course this is what breaks me.
Not blood. Not violence. Not being marked in front of a room full of men.
Just the quiet ache of wanting one impossible, stupid thing from a man who doesn’t know how to say it.
My eyes burn. I blink hard and stand again.
No.
