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Roman folds his arms across his chest. “It does. But it’s not all that matters.”

I move away from the desk toward the window. Outside, one of the patrols passes beneath a security light. The man’s rifle remains angled down, but his attention never leaves the tree line.

“She shouldn’t be in this,” I say. I don't need to look at him to know he's studying my reaction instead of my words.

“She is.”

“I know.” I drag a hand through my hair.

“Do you?”

There it is. The conversation he’s been steering toward since dinner.

I let out a slow breath. “Be careful.”

Roman doesn’t react to the warning. “I’m asking whether you understand what she is now.”

“She’s under my protection.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I hold his stare. Lying to Roman is a waste of breath. He would hear the lie before I finished speaking.

“I care for her,” I say finally.

Roman doesn’t look surprised at the admission which annoys me. He moves toward the bar without a word and pours two drinks. The ice clicks against the crystal.

“How much?” he asks.

I take the glass he offers. “Enough.”

Roman leans one hip against the edge of the desk. “For what?”

“To keep her.”

Roman takes a slow sip of whiskey. “Does she know that?”

“Yes.”

“Does she understand what it means?”

I swirl the whiskey once before taking a drink. “No.”

There’s the truth. Maggie trusts me. She wants me. She’s seen pieces of my world and chosen not to run. But she doesn’t understand how permanent my choices become once I make them. She doesn’t understand that the moment she became important to Ivy, she became important to me. Since then, every line has blurred until I can no longer separate protecting her from wanting her.

Maggie still thinks love is a choice people make every day. In my world, once someone is mine, they stay mine.

Roman exhales through his nose. “Then make sure she lives long enough to learn.”

The meaning is impossible to miss.

“Maggie can identify the attacker who escaped,” he continues. “That makes her useful to us.”

“And dangerous to them,” I add.

“Correct.”

Loose ends get cut. Neither of us says it aloud.