There’s no going back. No undoing it. No protecting her from it.
“You’re not safe here,” I say instead.
Her expression hardens immediately. “We’re not doing this again.”
“This isn’t the same argument,” I counter. “This is me telling you the truth.”
“Then tell me,” she challenges.
Her eyes lock onto mine, unflinching. Daring me. Trusting me. That last part hits harder than anything else. Because I haven’t earned it. Not yet. But she’s giving it anyway. I swallow hard, the weight of the decision settling in.
“This town,” I begin slowly, “has… rules.”
She blinks. “Rules.”
“Boundaries. Territory. Lines that don’t get crossed.”
“Okay,” she says cautiously. “And the guy tonight crossed one of those lines?”
“Yes.”
“And you stopped him.”
“Yes.”
She studies me. “Because you’re… what? The self-appointed enforcer?”
“Something like that.”
Her lips press together. “And the way you moved?—”
I cut her off gently. “Wasn’t human.”
Silence. Thick. Heavy. She stares at me, searching my face for any sign that I’m joking. I don’t give her one.
“You’re serious,” she says finally.
“Yes.”
Her breath catches slightly.
“And the guy tonight?”
“Also not human.”
She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Okay. Sure. Why not. We’re just throwing reality out the window now.”
I don’t react. Don’t soften it. Don’t try to ease her into it. Because there’s no gentle way to say this.
“You saw what you saw,” I say quietly. “You felt it.”
Her laughter dies. Because she did. We both know she did. The silence stretches again. Longer this time. More fragile.
“What are you?” she asks.
There’s no fear in her voice. Just?—
Need. To understand. I hold her gaze. And make the choice.
