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His hand comes up—not touching, just hovering, like he’s trying to remember what restraint tastes like.

“Say it,” he breathes. “Say you like it when I watch you.”

I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

But I don’t look away. And neither does he.

We’re a breath apart, tension a living thing between us. My chest heaves. His eyes flick to my lips, and I don’t know if he wants to kiss me or kill me.

Probably both.

I blink hard, trying to pull myself back. “I don’t want this.”

“Liar,” he chuckles, but with venom.

I shove past him, my chest still heaving. “You’re a fucking psychopath.”

His voice, calm and certain, follows me as I retreat. “You’ll come back.”

I pause at the doorway, my hands shaking, my heart hammering.

And for the first time since Jake disappeared, I’m more afraid of what I might do next than what Silas’s already done.

Before I do something stupid like kiss that psychopath just to taste the danger off his mouth, I need to come back to my senses. I need to outmaneuver him. I need control. And leverage.

Because whatever game Silas Creed thinks he’s playing, he doesn’t get to win.

Not with me.

I stalk down the hall, my slippers hitting marble like war drums. Past the cameras, past the portraits of dead men I’m supposed to respect, and straight to the east wing—old, neglected, and forgotten by guards, security, and ghosts.

The sunroom. My sanctuary.

I push the door open and close it behind me. There’s no whirring, no trace of red lights, and no sign of hidden lenses.

I’m alone.

The sun spills through the grimy glass ceiling in fractured gold, spotlighting the dust as it dances in lazy spirals. I breathe in deeply. It smells like ivy and dry earth and memory.

And freedom.

I sit on the edge of the old bench, my heart clawing against my ribs. My fingers scroll through my contacts, shaking just enough to betray the storm building under my skin.

Elijah Blake.

Fuck.

Even just seeing his name makes my chest ache. The kind of ache that comes with memory, regret, and a pulse that starts pounding in places it shouldn’t.

We met in college. He was two years ahead of me, older, sharper, and already halfway out the door with a future that practically came with handcuffs and a badge. He was gorgeous, the kind of gorgeous that didn’t need to try. Smart, too. Sharp as glass. And quiet. Not shy, just dangerously quiet.

He chased me like I was the cure and the disease rolled into one. Like he wanted to heal me and wreck me in equal measure. And I let him. For a little while. We had sparks. No… fire . The all-consuming kind, the kind that burns too hot to last.

But he was on the FBI fast track. Clean-cut, disciplined, and bound for greatness.

And I was… me. Chaos wrapped in lipstick. A walking headline with a habit of making bad decisions in six-inch heels. So, I did what I always do when things get too real. I ghosted him. No goodbye. No explanation. I just vanished.

And now I need a man who knows how to bend the rules just enough to protect someone. Someone who can color outside the lines without falling off the page.

And Elijah was always a little too good at walking that line. Strait-laced, but not afraid to get dirty when it counted.

My finger hovers over his contact for a second too long.

Then I hit call .

The dial tone rings. Once. Twice.

I almost start regretting my decision when he finally picks up.

“Lyra?”

His voice slices through the static like a knife. Smooth and a little deeper. His voice could talk you into sin and out of handcuffs.

“Elijah,” I say, breathless.

A long pause. “Wow. Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, “I know it’s been a minute.”

“A minute?” he repeats, laughing, but it’s tight. “Try fucking years.”

I shut my eyes and press my fingers against my temple. The headache’s back. Pounding and a lot worse. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Are you safe?”

I flinch. Safe is relative. “I need a favor.”

“Jesus. Of course you do.”

“I wouldn’t ask unless it was serious.”

“Is this about your family?”

“It’s about someone who might’ve disappeared because of me.”

He doesn’t say anything. He’s definitely standing now and pacing like he always did when his brain clicked into FBI mode. God, I remember that look in his eyes when he solved a problem like it was a chessboard, and he’d already won.

“Tell me everything,” he finally says.

“Last night…” My voice catches. “I was with someone. A guy. His name’s Jake. We were at this diner. Then my bodyguard showed up when we were in his car.”

“Lyra…”

“He dragged me out of Jake’s car and threw me into another. That was the last time I saw Jake. No text. No call. No story on social media. Nothing.”

There’s static. A rustle. Then, “Wait—are you saying you think this guy killed someone?”

“I don’t know,” I hiss. “I don’t know what he did. But he’s dangerous, Elijah. He’s ex-military. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. And he’s obsessed with me.”

“You need to report this.”

“I can’t,” I snap. “This guy works for my father. You think they’d believe me over the Vane name?”

He’s quiet again. Then, soft and cutting, he says, “You’re scared.”

I don’t respond.

“You used to be fearless,” he says. “You used to be fire.”

“I still am,” I bite back. “But even fire knows when it needs gasoline. I’m not scared anyway, I just…”

“What?”

“I need to know what happened to Jake. I need protection. I need dirt on Silas Creed. Can you help me or not?”

A beat.

Then, Elijah says, “Send me everything you know. Full name, any records, photos. If he’s got military clearance, I can find cracks.”

I let out a slow, shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“I’m not doing this for your father,” he says. “I’m doing it for you. Because even after all this time, even after everything, we both know I’d still set the world on fire if you asked me to.”

Then the line goes dead.

And just like that, I’ve lit the fuse.

Because Elijah Blake doesn’t play games.

And I’ve just handed him a war.