“Then do not lecture me about levers.”
For a moment, Lenrog’s sophistication thins enough to show the dangerous thing beneath. “I am the only reason he left this room walking.”
“So far.”
Evie steps between our voices without physically stepping between us. “Enough.”
We both look at her.
She is pale, bruised, rain-damp, furious, and trembling through the effort not to fall apart in front of men who keep turning her life into territory.
“I have been kidnapped, slapped, dragged into a restaurant full of people who pretend not to notice crime when it’s wearing a good suit, and used as a prop in the world’s ugliest father-son argument,” she says. “So unless either of you has a way to rewind the last hour, I would like to go home.”
My anger breaks open around the center of that.
Home.
Not the restaurant. Not the argument. Not Lenrog’s maps or Ron’s resentment.
Evie.
I turn fully toward her. “Yes.”
Lenrog inclines his head. “I will send word if Ron breaks supervision.”
“You do that,” Evie says. “And if Darlene decides to press charges by way of blunt-object assault, I will not stop her.”
“I would not dream of interfering.”
We leave without further ceremony.
The upper restaurant is quieter than before. People look away as we pass. The music continues, but even the strings sound cautious now. Outside, the rain has softened into mist. The city lights blur around us, bright and indifferent.
Evie makes it three steps beneath the awning before her knees give the smallest wobble.
I catch her immediately.
“I’m okay,” she says on reflex.
“No.”
She grips my arm, then closes her eyes. “No.”
I gather her against me.
Not in front of me as a shield. Not behind me as something hidden.
Against me.
Her body shakes once, then again. The tremors are small, controlled, and more frightening than sobs because they show how hard she is working to keep herself upright.
“I’ve got you,” I say.
“I know.”
“Do you want a transport?”
“No. I want air.”
