Page 60 of Freedom’s Inferno

A hollow chill spread through me.

Directly across the narrow street loomed a tall building of brick and glass, and on the third floor one window faced Lana’s perfectly. A photographer’s vantage point. Even from this distance, I could see the faint glint of glass. The photograph was taken from there. Those bastards violated us from up there.

The images came too easy: a man sitting there, the camera trained on this window, the same one Lana slept beside. Watching us. Waiting for a moment like the one captured in that last photo.

Lana came up behind me. I could feel her presence before she spoke, her breath trembling against the silence.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “That’s where they watched us.”

I pulled the curtains shut with more force than I intended, the fabric snapping against the wall, and when I turned, Lana startled like the sound had struck her. Regret hit me instantly, sharp and hollow. The last thing I ever wanted was to be the reason she flinched.

“Lana,” I said, the name catching in my throat.

I meant to offer comfort, something steady to hold on to, but the words died before they formed, leaving only the silence between us. Something inside of me cracked, the part of me that had always believed a man’s worth was measured in how well he could protect the things he cared about. I couldn’t protect her. I couldn’t even protect the space we slept in.

Someone had crept into our lives, and stolen something private, something sacred, and turned it into a weapon. It felt like being stripped naked in a room full of strangers. Like every inch of me had been handled, examined, catalogued. They had seen me in that half-light, vulnerable, unguarded, sleeping beside her with the smallest measure of peace I’d allowed myself in years—and they had taken it.

I wanted to peel off my own skin. I wanted to scrub away the feeling of exposure, but underneath the anger, shame crept in. The kind that settled deep and cold. I failed at something fundamental. I’d let someone watch her sleep.

Lana sank onto the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumped forward, fingers knotted in her lap. Her breathing came out shallow, and uneven. I stood there, watching the faint tremor in her hands, and the fragile way her composure held like glass about to splinter.

When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse. “That box was supposed to be the answer.”

My gaze met hers. “I know.”

Lana didn’t answer. Her blue eyes were wide, as she stared, blankly into space. She retreated inside of herself, and my chest caved in.

I crouched in front of her. “We still have something. The clock shop, the business card with the numbers on the back.”

She shook her head violently, the movement jerky, unmoored. “We don’t even know what those numbers are. Coordinates? Account numbers? A date? We don’t have a clue. We have nothing.” Her voice rose until it broke.

“Lana,” I said, but she wasn’t listening anymore. Her breaths were coming fast now, too fast. Her chest heaved like she couldn’t find enough air, her fingers gripping the sheets as if the room itself were sliding away from her.

I reached for her hand.

She pulled it back, pressing her palm to her chest, shaking her head. “We’re going to die. He’s going to blow our brains out, if he doesn’t take us apart piece by fucking piece!” Her voice cracked into a sob, and that sound, that single broken note, hit me harder than any threat ever could.

I caught her wrists gently, not restraining, just grounding. “Lana. Look at me. Breathe.”

Her body trembled. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” I brushed my thumbs over the backs of her hands, bringing them down to her knees.

Wild, glassy eyes found mine. A frantic pulse beat visibly at her throat, and her chest hitched and stuttered with every shaky breath she fought to take.

I exaggerated my own breathing until she started to follow, my eyes never leaving hers. Her features crumbled, and I caught her, pulling her against me. She buried her face in my chest, gasping like she couldn’t hold the air in. Her heart beat fast and unsteady against my ribs.

I pulled back from her enough to see her face, tilting her chin until her eyes met mine. “Listen to me, we’re in this together. Whatever comes next, we’ll find a way through it. I promise I won’t leave you alone in this.”

It hit me then, like a private kind of violence, sudden and absolute. When I’d confronted Lana back at Richard’s funeral, I’d been weary of the match I’d struck. Now, I held a live ember, hot in my palm. I knew, with the kind of clarity that left no room for bargaining, that I would not only strike that match again, I would throw myself into the pyre I started. I’d burn the whole world down, and let the flames take me with it, if it meant that Lana walked away untouched.

It scared me enough to give me pause, but not enough to stop.

Her lips parted, the fear in her eyes softening into something else. Something fragile. She reached up, her fingers trembling as they brushed my jaw, then lingered at my throat. The smallest touch, but it went straight through me. Her touch was feather-light, but it sank deep, threading through muscle and bone until it reached the place I’d spent years trying to seal off.

I forgot how to breathe for a moment.

Her fingers rested there, over the quickening beat of my pulse.