Page 37 of Forged in Fire

“I disobeyed direct orders in order to save your life,” he admits, and the honesty in it shakes me. “That has consequences.”

“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why risk everything for someone you don’t even know?”

He’s quiet for so long, I think he won’t answer. When he does, the words sound like they’re being dragged out of him.

“I don’t know.”

There’s something in his voice I can’t identify. Something that makes my shadows reach toward him despite the wards, like they recognize something in his darkness.

“You could let me go,” I say suddenly, testing a different approach. “Tell them you eliminated the problem.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve seen me. Know my methods. That makes you a permanent liability.”

The clinical way he says it should terrify me, but what I see in his eyes isn’t cold calculation. It’s conflict.

“What if I disappeared?” I press. “Vanished completely. Changed my name, left the continent. It would be like this never happened.” I’m improvising on the fly, but my options feel nonexistent right now.

“They’d find you, eventually.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “They always do.”

“Then what’s the solution? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like we’re both screwed.”

Something flickers across his features—surprise, maybe, at my directness.

His phone buzzes. A text this time. I watch his face change as he reads it, see his jaw clench with what looks like genuine anger.

“What now?”

He looks up at me, and for the first time since I’ve been conscious, I see something like uncertainty in his eyes.

“Nothing.”

I study his expression, watch how his hand moves toward the weapon at his hip—not threatening, just unconscious movement. Like he’s trying to convince himself of something.

“Are you going to kill me?” I’m surprised at how steady the question sounds.

He stares at me for a long moment, and I watch him war with himself. Duty versus instinct. Orders versus something else entirely.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and the rough honesty in his voice tells me more than any lie could.

“I don’t think you can,” I whisper, praying I’m reading him right.

Outside, wind picks up, rattling the windows like something trying to get in. Or maybe something trying to get out. My shadows pull against the restraints, still seeking escape. Still reaching toward him.

Still recognizing something I can’t even begin to understand.

His hand hovers over his weapon, and I see the exact moment when duty wars with something deeper. Something that makes him hesitate when he should be acting.

Something that might just save my life.

If I’m lucky.

If I’m right about what I see in his eyes when he looks at me.

If the connection I feel building between us is real and not just wishful thinking born of desperation.