“For staying.” Something heavy settles in my chest. I don’t know her name. I don’t know why we’re here. I only know I’m not leaving her alone down here.
I jerk awake, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. My breath comes ragged and loud in the silence. The cold bite of concrete still clings to my skin. The bedroom slowly bleeds back into focus—dark, quiet, safe. Kiera shifts beside me. Her brow furrowing in her sleep, and her hands curling into my shirt, fingers fisting the fabric with surprising strength. She grips me like she’s terrified I’ll disappear. Exactly like the girl from my dream.
My breath catches. I slide my hand over hers, grounding us both, and drag her tighter against my chest. Her breathing eventually evens out, soft and trusting, completely unaware of the storm raging behind my eyes. It was just a dream. Just another broken fragment. But the feeling doesn’t fade. It sinks its claws deeper. I stare at the ceiling, pulse finally slowing, while one dangerous thought circles like a blade pressed against my throat. I don’t know who that girl is. I just know I stayed. And somehow…that feels like the only thing that mattered.
I don’t move for a long time. Kiera remains curled into my side exactly where she belongs, her body fitting against mine like it was made for me. Like my arms already know every curve without permission. Dawn hasn’t fully broken yet. The room is bathed in that hazy half-light that blurs reality—edges softened, shadows long and hungry. I watch her breathe. In. Out. Slow. Steady.Mine.
My chest tightens, a sharp, illogical squeeze. It’s the way her fingers are still twisted in my shirt, even in sleep. Not just clinging, but anchoring. Like she learned too fucking early that things disappear the second you let go.I’ve seen that grip before. The thought slides in sideways, cold and unwelcome. I shove it away. My brain has always been vicious when it comes to patterns. It connects dots whether I want it or not. That doesn’t mean every echo is a warning. But this one feels like it.
Her brow furrows deeper, like she’s trapped in a nightmare and losing the fight. I resist the urge to shake her awake. Instead, I drag my thumb slowly down—gentle, deliberate—keeping her close to me. Her breathing steadies again. Relief crashes through me, far too violent for something this small.Why the fuck do I care so much?
I shift, careful not to wake her, and my gaze locks on the faint scar just below her collarbone. I noticed it before. Clean. Old. My stomach twists. “How many times,” I murmur under my breath, the question slipping out before I can stop it. She exhales, lips parting on a soft, unconscious sound. Not fear. Not pain.Trust. That single sound guts me deeper than any blade ever could. Because trust is dangerous. Trust is shattered in basements and locked rooms, in long nights where no one answers your screams.
I sit up slowly, easing her hand free only after she relaxes again. She shifts, murmuring something soft and incoherent, then settles back into my side like she belongs there. I don’t leave the bed. I stay there, elbows braced on my knees, staring at the floor like it owes me answers. Like it might crackopen and confess if I wait long enough. The dream keeps pressing at the back of my skull: concrete floor, freezing air, a girl with eyes far too old for her face. Cold. I told myself it was only a memory. Trauma reshuffling itself. My mind fills in blanks with ghosts. But my chest knows better. It always fucking does.
The timeline doesn’t line up. The details don’t either. And yet…the way she watches doors. The way she catalogs exits without ever looking directly. The way she goes still when voices rise. The way she doesn’t remember parts of her childhood yet still knows how to survive without them. My jaw tightens until it aches.No.I refuse to connect dots that aren’t proven. That path leads to fucking madness. I glance back at her, eyes tracing the slow rise and fall of her back. I don’t know what she’s hiding from herself. But I know this much with terrifying certainty: whatever is circling us now…already knows.
I lie back down beside her, careful and controlled, sliding an arm around her waist. Protective. Instinctive. Unthinking. Sleep doesn’t return. Neither does the suspicion leave. Whatever brushed the edge of my thoughts last night—whatever didn’t sit felt wrong, off, dangerous—I lock it down tight and force it away. Speculation doesn’t help. Not yet. If there’s something buried there, I’ll dig it up when the time is right. When I’m ready to face what I find.
By the time I leave the bedroom, the house reeks of stale coffee and burned ozone. Cam sits at the kitchen table, laptop open, eyes bloodshot and raw. The sunlight cuts through the windows like an accusation. “We start now,” I say. He nods once. No questions. No bullshit. Kiera drops into the chair across from him a few minutes later, hair twisted up messily, hoodie wallowing her like armor. She looks like she hasn’t slept either. She opens her laptop without sparing either of us a glance. We don’t talk about last night. We just work.
The first pieces go in methodically. Not loud. Not reckless. We lay structure instead of noise. New rules. New pathways. A program that doesn’t just react but remembers. Anything that touches it leaves a mark. Asher’s signature is threaded through the framework like a blade hidden in silk: clean enough to look natural, sharp enough to cut anyone who follows it.
Lila wanders in sometime around lunch, squinting at the microwave clock like it personally offended her. “Why does it feel like we fought the sun and lost?” She pours coffee, her needed lifeline. “Also, it’s noon. Who the fuck let that happen?” No one answers. Her gaze slides over the screens, taking in the code, data streams, and the quiet we’re building. “Cool. Cyber warfare before sandwiches.” She takes a long sip, mouth twisting. “Love this arc for us.” By the time food shows up and sits mostly untouched, the trail is already there. It’s not finished, but it’s there. And once Wade finds it, he won’t be able to stop pulling. I lean back in my chair, exhaustion finally sinking into my bones as the last lines of code lock into place. We’ve barely slept, but the trap is set.
I don’t wait long. Wade Hawthorne is the kind of man who smells silence like blood in the water. Give him a single drop, and he’ll frenzy. I step away from the table, phone already in hand, and slip out onto the back patio. The sun hangs high and brutal, indifferent and ordinary, as if the world isn’t already rotting beneath its glare. The phone rings twice before he answers. “What do you have?” Wade snaps, voice clipped. No greeting. No patience.
“I have movement,” I say evenly, voice low and controlled. “Not proof. Not yet. But a pattern.” Silence stretches thick across the line. He’s listening now. Hungry for it. “I cross-referenced the attendees from both events,” I continue. “Timing. Access points. Data residue. Whoever this is isn’t some outsider.” My voice drops lower. “They know your systems. Your people. Your habits.”
His breath is tight. Controlled. Like a predator holding back a snarl. “You said you were close.”
“I am,” I reply, calm and steady. Any misstep can set off alarms for him. “But you need to understand something. This person isn’t trying to drain you.” My tone drops. “They’re trying to corner you.”
Silence echoes across the line. Then, quieter, almost a growl. “Explain.”
“They want you paranoid. Watching everyone. Second-guessing your inner circle.” I let the words hang, giving them time to sink their teeth in. “And there’s one name that keeps surfacing.” I keep my tone flat. “Not loudly. Just consistently.”
I hear the shift in his breathing before he speaks. “Who?”
“Asher Sinclair.”
The reaction is immediate. “That’s ridiculous,” Wade says sharply. Too fast. “Asher’s loyal.”
“So, you keep saying,” I answer calmly. “But loyalty doesn’t erase opportunity.” I let the silence stretch again. “He has access. Legal cover. Plausible deniability. And he’s been present every single time something leaked.”
“That’s circumstantial.”
“Everything is,” I say, voice smooth. “Until it isn’t.”
Another stretch of silence drags between us. I picture him standing in some sleek, expensive office—jaw locked tight, mind racing through every worst-case scenario. He wants this to be true. Not because it makes sense, but because it gives him a target to destroy. “I need time,” Wade finally says.
“You don’t have it,” I reply, voice final. “If Asher realizes you’re onto him, he’ll burn every trail and disappear.” I let the warning settle. “You wanthim to be comfortable. You want him thinking he’s ahead.” My tone hardens. “Because the second he feels hunted… he’s gone.”
“And what do you suggest?” His voice is clipped now, dangerous.
“I suggest you let me keep digging. Quietly.” I pause, letting my words settle. “Don’t confront him. Don’t tip your hand. And whatever you do,” I add, “don’t change your routine. He’s watching for that.”
“If you’re wrong…”
