I tighten my grip on the armrest and force my attention back where it belongs—on strategy, not sensation. Control, not impulse.
She’s an asset.
A liability.
A problem that must be managed.
Nothing more.
I remind myself of the truth I’ve lived by for seventeen years: Emotions complicate outcomes. Attachment breeds mistakes. I do not make mistakes.
Still, my gaze follows her as she stops pacing and presses her palms to the window, staring out into the dark forest beyond the compound walls.
Caged.
Unbroken.
I tell myself again—this is business.
And if I repeat it enough, my body will eventually listen.
Five minutes later, movement catches my attention.
Raelyn steps out of the guest room.
She looks different. Not calmer, but steadier in a way that sharpens my focus. Her hair is slightly damp, loose around her shoulders. Her face is pale, eyes bright with unshed tears and fury held together by sheer will. She looks shaken.
She looks dangerous.
I rise from my desk without conscious thought and follow the sound of her footsteps into the hallway. My shoes are silent against the floor. I don’t announce myself.
She senses me anyway.
Raelyn turns—and freezes.
There it is again. That instinct. That awareness. Her breath catches, chest rising sharply as she locks eyes with me.
“Explain this,” she demands, voice hoarse with exhaustion and fear she refuses to soften. “All of it. Right now.”
Her eyes are still innocent. That untouched belief in right and wrong, in fairness, in rescue—it hasn’t been beaten out of her yet.
But her posture is defiant. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. Like she’s daring the world to try her again.
The combination of defiance and innocence is…combustible.
I feel it settle deeper this time, darker and more possessive than before. Obsession tightening its grip, quiet and absolute.
“You should be resting,” I say evenly.
She lets out a sharp laugh. “You kidnap me, lock me in a mansion, tell me my life is over, and you think I’m going to sleep?”
She takes a step toward me. Brave. Foolish. Remarkable.
“I want answers,” she says. “Real ones. Not threats. Not cryptic crap. If you’re going to cage me, you at least owe me the truth.”
I don’t respond.
Silence is more effective than reassurance. More honest than comfort. Her jaw tightens. She exhales sharply, then turns as if she’s done with me, storming down the corridor with fury written into every step.