“And if he doesn’t?” I ask, though part of me already knows I don’t want the answer.
Cole’s expression barely changes. “Then you become the example.”
The words land like ice water down my spine.
I don’t ask what kind of example.
I can feel it.
He doesn’t need to be graphic to be cruel. That’s not how he works. He lets implication do the cutting for him. Lets my own fear build the blade.
“No,” I say, the word leaving me before I can stop it.
His brow lifts. “No?”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
He smiles, patient and terrible.
“Aurora,” he says softly, “I already did.”
I shake my head, even though I don’t know what I’m arguing against anymore. The logic. The threat. The inevitability.
He watches me like he’s waiting for me to understand my place in this.
I refuse, even now.
Especially now.
“You think Ryder’s changed,” Cole says. “You think he’s become something better because he wants to play house above a bar.” He leans closer. “But when it matters? When it costs him? He’ll be exactly what he’s always been.”
My chest aches. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
He searches my face, maybe looking for doubt.
I don’t let him have it.
Maybe Ryder has darkness in him. Maybe all three of them do. I’ve seen enough now to know love and danger can live in the same body, that tenderness can come with blood on its knuckles.
But I know this too: Cole wants fear to erase everything human in the world.
I will not help him do it.
So I lift my chin.
My wrists hurt. My head hurts. My whole body feels like one long bruise wrapped in panic.
Still, I look him dead in the eyes.
“He’ll come,” I say. “But not the way you think.”
Anger flickers in Cole’s expression. The smallest irritation that I am not breaking on schedule.
Good.
