Page 5 of Silent Night, Savage Heart

Something changes in her eyes. Not trust, but recognition that my motives are different from the power brokers at this event.

“My father’s not actually looking for me,” she says quietly. “Is he?”

“Probably not.”

“So that was a kidnapping attempt.”

“Yes.”

“Sanctioned by your family?”

“By part of it.”

She absorbs that with a calm that tells me tonight’s stunt didn’t surprise her. For her, it may be confirmation and not discovery. “And you stopped it because…?”

“Because I don’t traffic people. Not anymore. Not ever.”

“But you’ll protect me for them.”

“I’ll protect you from them.” I keep my voice steady. The distinction matters. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” She tilts her head, studying me like she’s deciding whether to keep me or cut me loose. “You’re still here on their orders. Still playing their game.”

“For now.”

“And when the rules change?”

“Then I change with them.”

She laughs once. It’s sharp, humorless. “You know what’s ridiculous? I believe you.” She faces the railing, fingers wrapping the iron like an anchor. “My father’s job has always been a pain in the ass, but this is on another level.”

“Yeah, it is.”

She pauses for a moment, her hands resting on the railing. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they? Or ruin me so thoroughly I wish they had.”

“Not while I’m breathing.”

“That’s not as comforting as you think. Men die in Wintervale every day.”

“I’m difficult to bury.”

“So was my mother.” Her voice flattens. “She died three years ago. Clear day. Clear road. Forty-eight hours later, it was classified as a ‘mechanical failure.’”

She doesn’t need to finish. I know the story.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. I mean it.

“Don’t be. Be useful.” She turns back, and now the steel in her is blazing. “If you’re not one of them—if you’re actually keeping me alive—then I need the truth. Who wants me? Why. And what they think I’m worth dying for.”

Good question. Dangerous answer.

Through the windows, the gala keeps doing what galas do. A night of smiles, handshakes, and quiet extortion with champagne flutes. Somewhere in there, Silas is counting pieces like a chessboard, moving them, betting I’ll deliver Peyton to her father and pretend I’m back on the leash.

He’s wrong.

“Not here,” I say. “Too many ears. Do you trust me enough to leave with me?”

“No.”