“Good,” she says quietly. “Because I didn’t come this far for it not to.”
I nod once, turning back toward the path ahead.
“Then let’s make sure it sticks,” I reply.
CHAPTER 35
JOLIE
The safehouse doesn’t look like anything from the outside.
Just another fractured section of Myrza’s lower districts, buried under dust and neglect, the entrance half-swallowed by collapsed plating and rusted conduit that hums faintly with dying current. The air smells wrong the second we slip inside—stale, metallic, layered with old smoke and something faintly chemical that clings to the back of my throat—but it’s quiet, and right now quiet matters more than clean.
“Clear,” Hrask mutters, sweeping the interior with a quick, practiced glance before stepping fully inside.
I follow, the door sealing behind us with a dull mechanical grind that cuts off the distant echo of alarms and pursuit. The sudden absence of noise hits harder than the chaos we just left, like my body doesn’t know what to do without something actively trying to kill me.
“Yeah,” I breathe, bracing a hand against the wall as I finally let myself stop moving. “This’ll do.”
The room is small but functional—low ceilings, reinforced walls, a central table scarred by use, and a corner stacked with old supply crates that look like they’ve been opened and resealed too many times to count. A dim light flickers overhead, unstablebut persistent, casting uneven shadows that shift every time it stutters.
“You’ve been here before,” I say, glancing at Hrask as he moves through the space like he knows exactly where everything is.
“Not this exact one,” he replies, checking a panel near the door before turning back to me. “But enough like it.”
“Of course,” I mutter, pushing off the wall and taking a few steps inward.
My leg nearly gives.
I catch myself before I hit the floor, but it’s not graceful, and the movement nearly steals the breath from my chest hard enough to make the room tilt.
“Yeah,” Hrask says immediately, crossing the space in two steps. “You’re done pretending that’s not a problem.”
“I’m fine,” I shoot back, even as my voice tightens.
“Yeah,” he mutters, sliding an arm under mine to steady me anyway. “You keep saying that like it’s convincing.”
“I made it here,” I counter.
“Barely,” he replies, guiding me toward the table. “Sit.”
“I’m not?—”
“Sit,” he repeats, firmer this time.
I glare at him for a second, then drop onto the edge of the table with a sharp exhale.
“Happy?” I mutter.
“Less annoyed,” he says, crouching in front of me as he looks at my side.
“Still not the same thing.”
“Close enough.”
His fingers hover near the edge of the torn fabric, not touching yet—just assessing—and something about that restraint lands differently now. Not distance. Not hesitation.
Control.
