The fire crackled softly, heat reaching me in slow waves. A crystal decanter and matching glasses sat on a side table near one of the chairs, the amber liquid inside catching the light. Heavy curtains framed the tall windows, their fabric thick enough to block the view outside entirely. They’d block sound too, if you pulled them shut.
I scanned for a landline and found nothing. I wished I had my phone, but of course it was useless without the battery and SIM card. Every frame on the walls could have been hiding a camera. My neck itched like I was already being watched; the kind of slow creep that makes you want to turn around even when you know you’ll see nothing. I kept my face neutral anyway, just in case.
I kept looking around, cataloging details the way I did on an assignment. The rugs were worn in the center but rich in color, edges still sharp against the floor. The carved mantle held no family photos, only a heavy clock and two candlesticks. Even the throw draped over the arm of the couch felt expensive under my fingertips, soft and finely woven.
This was not the kind of place I’d imagined when Mark said he wanted me to be somewhere safe. I’d pictured bare walls, maybe a rental cabin in the woods, or one of those dingy apartments that you see in action movies. A space meant to be abandoned as easily as it was occupied. This, by contrast, felt rooted. Permanent.
Questions pushed forward in my mind: who owned this house, and why was it the one they brought me to?
Kara didn’t explain. She glanced toward the arched doorway, then back at me. “Don't move.”
The words felt like a test. I shifted forward, just an inch to see if she’d turn back. Her gaze cut back to me, sharp and exact, and my knees stilled. Message received.
“I’ll secure the perimeter and check the camera feeds.”
Before I could ask how many cameras there were, or why they needed them in a place like this, she was already moving toward the hall. Her steps were silent over the rugs, her posture the same disciplined line it had been all day.
Ellie appeared from the foyer, setting my bag near the sofa. She carried a black case closer, setting it on the floor by me and unzipping one side. Inside, neat compartments held rolls of gauze, antiseptic packets, bandage tape, and small instruments that caught the light. The clean, sharp scent of alcohol rose as she shifted a few items to the side. The click of zippers and glass vials made the room feel smaller.
She glanced at my ankle, then back into the kit. “Sit back. I’ll take a look at the damage.”
The faint sound of a door closing came from deeper in the house. Kara, on her circuit. Ellie didn’t look up. I watched her from where I sat, my ankle throbbing in time with my pulse. Up close, there was nothing rushed about her. Her locs were pulled back in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, the ends just visible where they were secured. The line of her jaw was broken by a thin scar near her chin.
I wondered how she’d gotten it, and why I cared.
Her eyes were a deep brown that seemed to hold their own stillness, like a placid surface with a depth I couldn’t gauge. She moved like a woman with all the time in the world, but nothing about her felt casual. Every choice was deliberate, and I couldn’t tell if that was better or worse than Kara’s constant edge.
The fire crackled softly behind us, and for the first time since we’d left my loft, I noticed my shoulders had loosened just a little.
Ellie snapped a pair of gloves from the kit. “This might sting.”
6
Ellie
Firelight slid across Sabine'sankle, the skin already swelling in a pale ridge above the strap of her shoe. A jagged wound angled across her ankle and lower calf, where a rock had torn through her skin. I crouched beside the table, placing the towel so it caught the light from the fire, and set out the antiseptic, gauze, and elastic wrap in a neat row.
“Let me see,” I said, keeping my voice level.
She angled her leg toward me. The shoe slid free with a slow give, and I caught the quick flare of discomfort in her eyes before she smoothed it over. Her skin was warm under my fingers, the heat running higher around the joint. She stayed still, but her gaze cut briefly to mine, like she was checking whether I meant to hurt her.
“This might hurt a little,” I told her, tearing open the antiseptic packet. “If the pain spikes, tell me.”
She gave a short nod.
Her breath caught at the first touch of the wipe.
"I know, I'm sorry. I'll try to be quick." I hated that I was hurting her, causing her distress, but I had a job to do. She would hurt less if I cleaned and wrapped her injuries.
She didn’t pull away, but her shoulders tightened. I kept the motion steady, working from the cut down toward the swelling, checking the color and how far it spread.
“Where did you learn to do this?” she asked, watching my hands.
“Field medicine,” I said.
“Military?”
I met her eyes for half a beat, then looked back at the injury. “I was a medic.” Nothing more. “Any allergies? Medication today?”
