Page 40

I can’t believe I’m sitting in the goddamn Black Lungs Bar at midnight.

A bar that looks like it’s given up on trying—all flickering bulbs and stained floorboards. Here, the jukebox only plays songs that sound like they’ve been exiled from decent society, and the walls haven’t been cleaned since the Cold War.

It smells like old beer, bad decisions, and maybe blood, though you don’t ask.

That metallic tang clings to the air like it knows it is unwelcome but refuses to leave.

The floor is also sticky enough to suggest that it’s trying to keep you here permanently.

The booths, once some unfortunate shade of red, are now dulled to the color of dried rust, almost sinister in their stillness.

And I’m here because of a text from Zara.

Charming, my ass.

She’s already seated when I walk in, and she sticks out like a Swarovski chandelier in a condemned basement.

She looks like she took a wrong turn leaving a fashion week afterparty and then ended up in a Quentin Tarantino scene.

Her heels click against the grimy floor like they’re offended to touch it.

She’s perched on the edge of a cracked booth like it might bite her if she settles in.

And that Birkin bag of hers is being held in a death grip as though it’s wired to explode if it touches anything unsterilized.

She’s trying to play it cool, scrolling on her phone like she’s above it all. But her eyes betray her, darting from face to face and tracking every leather jacket and scar. Every man here looks like he’s auditioning for the role of “Guy Who Buries You Behind a Bar.”

Zara flinches every time someone clears their throat too loudly.

She doesn’t belong here, never did. She’s all proper and polished in a place held together by spite and spilled beer, which only raises the question: Why the hell did she call me here?

Because Black Lungs Bar isn’t the kind of place you come to talk. It’s where secrets go to get stabbed in the alley, and even I am careful not to touch anything for too long.

“Nice spot,” I say dryly, glancing at the flickering “BEER & BEEF” neon sign that’s missing the F.

She scowls. “You think I wanted to come here?”

“No,” I mutter. “But I’m dying to know why you did.”

As I approach the table, I finally notice him—the man sitting across from her, partially hidden in the shadowed corner, his body angled toward her like they’ve been deep in negotiation.

He has that government-issued smugness about him, with perfect posture, trimmed beard, and a glass of aged whiskey in his hand.

He looks like he owns the room. An FBI badge is clipped to his blazer just enough to be visible, just enough to say, “Yeah, I can fuck up your life with one phone call.” His grin is the type that’s practiced—corporate and snake-like.

And his eyes have been on me since the second I walked in.

He leans forward, extending a hand like we’re here to toast mergers instead of cleaning up a digital bloodbath. He’s polished. So polished that it’s making me uncomfortable.

Zara’s posture tenses like she’s bracing for impact.

“Silas,” she says quickly, her voice strained but steady, “this is Agent Elijah Blake. He’s… looking into the leak. Someone flagged it on a federal node.”

I don’t take his hand.

“I don’t shake hands with men who smile at what they want to protect.”

Elijah doesn’t flinch. He just lowers his hand slowly and says, “Your file’s a goddamn novel. Former Blackwatch. Then a mercenary. Then… babysitter?”

I lean forward, elbows on the table, invading his space like smoke. “She’s not your jurisdiction.”

His grin fades, just a fraction. “She’s not your property either,” he shoots back, his voice calm, though the edge is there.

We just sit there, staring at each other, locked in like two wolves measuring teeth.

Neither of us blinks. Neither of us breathes.

Somewhere in the background, a fan squeals and a glass clinks, but here, in this charged standoff, the world has gone still.

His jaw ticks. I’ve done this dance before, and I’m better at it. He’s waiting for me to blink, and I’m waiting for him to get tired.

“You gonna keep glaring, or should I start charging rent?” he mutters eventually.

I raise a brow. “Depends. You planning to keep being a problem?”

A beat passes. Then, he grins again, but now it’s thinner.

“Just saying,” he says with a shrug, leaning back half an inch. “For a babysitter, you’re awfully territorial.”

Zara presses a hand between us like she’s defusing a bomb. “God, stop measuring dicks. Lyra’s breaking, and you both need to fix your shits before she turns to stone.”

Her voice is the first real thing in this bar.

I glance at her and see the panic hiding behind her mascara. She’s scared. She’s scared of what this means and what Lyra might do next, which is enough to pull me back.

Zara leans back with a sigh, her arms folded. “I brought you both here because Lyra doesn’t trust anyone. But she trusts you. Both of you! So start acting like it.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You brought an FBI agent into this clusterfuck?”

She crosses her arms even tighter. “You think this is just about influencer drama and leaked videos? Someone used a federal node. Lyra’s not just being targeted. She’s being watched, tracked, and played. That’s national-level interest. And I can’t protect her on my own.”

Elijah sips his whiskey, calm as a fucking monk. “Zara’s right. Someone flagged her because it’s not just about her. It’s about the people connected to her. The names. The money. The reach.”

I stare at him. “You saying this is a bigger game?”

He leans forward, his voice low and even. “I’m saying Lyra Vane is the pawn. And someone out there thinks she’s the key to checkmate.”

I grit my teeth. That explains the timing and the precision. Even the silence from Evander. And why every brand, every outlet, and every name with reach has suddenly decided that Lyra is untouchable.

Zara turns to me, and her voice cracks when she says, “I haven’t talked to her, but I know she’s shutting down. Silas, please, we have to get ahead of this before it’s too late.”

I nod. “Fine. I’ll work with him… for Lyra.”

Elijah shoots me a smug, slow smile. Like he’s already won something I haven’t figured out yet.

I rise from my seat. “Anything else?”

“That’s it… for now,” Zara says, her eyes hard. “I just needed you two to meet and start building some trust.”

I nod once, turn, and walk out.

But inside me, something unspools fast and sharp. Because Elijah Blake wants to protect Lyra. But I want to burn the whole goddamn world down so nothing ever touches her again.

I stalk out into the cool night, my heart hammering. I don’t trust Blake. Not his badge, not his smirk, and not the fact that he knew to show up at that bar like it was some fate-laced meet-cute.

Lyra doesn’t need saviors. She needs war.

I slip into the Dodge. The engine rumbles to life, and I drive straight back to the estate. As I pass the abandoned mall lot—my last stakeout spot—I think about everything Blake said.

Evander hasn’t returned any calls. Someone higher up is already pulling strings. Clearly, this leak isn’t just personal, it’s political.

If Evander Vane is mixed up in this, then it means the rot goes deeper than I thought. Maybe Lyra’s father isn’t just ignoring her. Maybe he’s waiting for her to fall apart.

And if that’s true, then I’ll make sure he learns something very simple, very fast, which is that if someone hurts her, I won’t just arrest them. I’ll erase them.

I didn’t think I’d end my night with a fucking business card from an FBI agent burning a hole in my pocket, but hey, life’s full of surprises. Like sushi in a gas station. Or Lyra not slamming the door in my face last week.

I drive back to the estate in a daze. There’s a low hum in the tires, a grumble in my gut, and rage clawing its way up my chest like it’s dipped in fire.

Elijah Blake. That slick suit, that calm voice, and that smile, like he’s already read the ending and just isn’t telling anyone yet. I don’t like him, and he knows it. Yet somehow, that just makes him smirk harder.

Still, Zara brought him in. And she doesn’t do anything without a reason. The girl might dress like a luxury ad and cry during perfume commercials, but she’s sharp. Terrified, but sharp.

When I reach the estate, the iron gates creak open like they’re exhaling. The estate stretches ahead, huge, beautiful, and about as warm as Evander’s fucking voicemail. I park under the canopy of trees and lean back, staring at the upper floor.

Her light’s still on. Of course it is.

She hasn’t slept. Not really. Not since the video. Not since the world turned on her like wolves catching the scent of blood.

And I haven’t been able to get close.

She asked for space. No, she demanded it, like a queen drawing her line in the sand. And I’m the idiot knight still standing just beyond it with my sword drawn, waiting for the enemy to come.

I don’t go to her room. I don’t text. I don’t knock.

Instead, I grab the black satchel from the trunk and start walking.

The garden path is lit by soft, useless fairy lights. I bypass them, stepping into the shadows where the security lights don’t quite reach. Gravel crunches under my boots, and the wind cuts sideways. All I can think about is how much I want to see her. Just see her. Even if she won’t meet my eyes.

I stop at the edge of the woods, quiet and unmoving.

Then I drop to one knee and dig.

The signal receiver is older tech—ex-military, barely traceable, and completely illegal. I anchor it in the soil and splice the fiber into the underground line I laid when I first took this job. Just in case.

Always just in case.

She wants to be left alone? Fine. I’ll respect that. But I won’t leave her blind.

This device will feed me everything: pings, texts, browser behavior, and social media triggers. If anything moves near her digital trail again, I’ll know. And the next time someone tries to burn her down, I’ll be the goddamn firewall.

I cover the receiver, brush the dirt from my hands, and glance up at her window.

It’s still lit. Still hers. Still out of reach.

I should walk away. But instead, I stand there with my eyes locked on that slice of golden light and think about the thousand things I’ll never say.

“You don’t have to burn alone.”

“I’ve already killed for you. Bleed with me.”

But I don’t say any of it.

I just whisper her name to the wind like it might carry it better than I can. “Lyra. Let me in.”

Because the storm is still building.

And I’ve already chosen my side.