Page 35 of Crown Of Blood

"I'm trying to keep you alive."

"Then help me find who's trying to kill me," I shoot back. "If it isn't you, then prove it."

His eyes lock onto mine, fierce and searching. "What do I have to do to prove I'm not the bad guy?"

I lift a brow, breath shaky. "You mean in this situation?"

He exhales, a ghost of a laugh slipping through his frustration. "Yeah. In this situation."

"Start by giving me back my files and my phone."

He straightens. "You're still bargaining?"

"Yes," I say without hesitation. "You want me to stay? Fine. But I need access to the outside world. My notes. My work. My people."

He studies me for a long, tense moment—the kind that feels like he's trying to see inside me.

Then something in his expression softens, resignation and something else flickering through his eyes.

"Alright."

I blink. "What?"

He stands, crossing the room toward a sleek safe set into the wall. The keypad glows under his hand, a quiet beep breaking the silence.

"You'll have everything back," he says. "Your phone, your files, your notes. All of it."

The safe opens with a quiet click. He pulls out my laptop, my external drive, and the sealed envelope that holds my backup files—every piece of the life he took from me now in his hands again.

He turns, setting them on the desk beside his computer.

"You're serious?" I ask, still skeptical.

He nods once, expression unreadable. "If you're going to chase this, you won't do it alone. I'll help you."

The words settle like an earthquake under my ribs.

"You're going to help me expose whoever's behind this?"

"Yes." He steps closer, voice low. "Because if someone used my name, they've already declared war on me."

The honesty in his tone sends a shiver through me.

I glance at the desk, at my laptop sitting next to his. It feels like a peace treaty neither of us knows how to hold.

"So," I murmur, "what now?"

He nods toward the couch against the wall. "Now we work."

I hesitate, still unsure if this is real or a trap, but the exhaustion in his eyes tells me it's something else—surrender, maybe.

I move toward the couch, and as I sit, he's already at his desk, rolling up his sleeves again, watching me with that mix of warning and want I still can't decipher.

"Let's get to work," he says.

Chapter 10

The room is too quiet.