Page 30 of Fire and Silk

He doesn’t sit like a normal man.

He folds into the armchair across from the bed like it was carved to fit him, legs crossed, wrist resting on the arm like he has all the time in the world. But he’s not relaxed, he’s coiled. Watching.

“I’ll make this easier,” he says, tone light but exact. “You’re Lira Marcelline Falco. Born and raised in San Remo, Italy. Moved to Victoria with your parents when you were twelve. Background in classical music. Violin. Very promising.”

My lungs stop for a moment.

He keeps going.

“You earned a full scholarship to Melba Conservatorium of Music in Carlton. You were a rising star. Composed, performed, conducted. Then your father died—ten years ago. Your mother followed three years ago.”

I feel my jaw set. My nails press against my palms.

“Your brother—Petty Officer Second Class Marco Falco—died one year after your mother. Active duty.”

My chest tightens.

He tilts his head slightly, voice still smooth. “You spiraled. Stopped attending classes. Failed a major solo recital. You were dropped from the honors list. Lost your scholarship due to academic decline and behavioral reports. Drug use flagged. You were checked into Corwell Rehab Centre under an anonymous sponsor.”

My mouth is dry.

“You stayed ten months. Sober, but not stable. You left with no degree, no savings, and about seventeen thousand dollars in school debt after you lost your scholarship. You work at a pizza shop six days a week, tutor violin on weekends, and work at a bar every night you’re not passed out from exhaustion.”

His eyes meet mine.

I sit frozen, skin burning. The words don’t even feel like they belong to me anymore.

“Who are you?” I manage.

He rises. And when he stands, he keeps standing. Doesn’t shift, doesn’t twitch. Just… exists. Above me.

His shadow eats the light. I barely breathe as he walks toward me.

He stops in front of the bed. Leans down.

I can smell his cologne—smoke and citrus, invasive. His breath ghosts against my cheek. My hands twitch. Every cell in my body screams.

He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to.

“You,” he says softly, “are someone who has something that I own.”

Our eyes lock.

His voice lands like a stone in my stomach.

And suddenly I’m not afraid. I’mfurious.

Before I even register the decision, I whip my head forward—bone smashing into his nose with a sick crack. He staggers back with a grunt, one hand flying to his face. Blood spills between his fingers.

I don’t wait to see what he does.

I throw myself off the bed, feet hitting the floor hard. The tile is cold and slick under my soles. I bolt toward the door, heart exploding in my chest.

I reach it in seconds—yank the handle—and itopens.

A split second of hope.

Then—