Page 162 of The Silent War

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “There’s nowhere else I should be.”

Her hands trembled against my wrists. I kissed under one eye, then the other. “Ours,” I whispered against her cheek. “Every tear. Every breath. Ours.”

She pressed forward until her forehead rested against mine, her breath warm and uneven.

I closed my eyes, holding her face, anchoring her there.

“You don’t spend another night behind Adams doors,” I muttered. “Hiding your pain from us.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the sound of her breath against mine. I felt the pulse in her throat under my thumb. She was breaking. And I would tear down the whole dynasty to keep her from shattering where I couldn’t reach.

I kissed her again, slow. Then I pulled her into my chest, her body folding against me, her sobs muffled in my shirt.

I let her cry.

Because these tears weren’t weakness. They were proof she was still fighting. And if she thought she had to fight alone, she was wrong.

My hands held her tight, pressing her into me until she could feel the truth in my grip.

Her sobs breaking slower, softer, until they were only tremors in her chest. I kept one hand stroking her back, the other cradling the back of her head. The mess of her hair tangled around my fingers.

She whispered into my shirt, muffled, “I can’t go. Not tonight.”

“You can, and you will. Because you’re ours.”

“They’ll—”

I tipped her chin up, made her look at me. “Let them try.”

Her mouth trembled, another tear slipping. I kissed it away before it reached her jaw. Then I stood, lifting her from the couch in one smooth movement.

“Luca—”

“You’re not staying here.” My grip adjusted, her legs going around me automatically. “Not for them. Not for anyone.”

I carried her toward the elevator.

The guards in the lobby didn’t look up as I stepped through the doors. They knew better. The cameras overhead—mine. Every angle scrubbed clean, replaced with a still feed that showed nothing but an empty hall.

She buried her face against my throat, her breath shaky. “You shouldn’t?—”

“I should,” I cut in. My voice dropped, sharp. “I should’ve come sooner. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The city night air hit us as the doors opened. And there, at the curb, black car idling, was Bastion.

He leaned against the hood, cigarette burning low between his fingers, eyes locked on the building like he could burn it down with a look. When he saw me carrying her, his jaw tightened.

He flicked the cigarette away.

I opened the back door and slid her inside. She shifted as though she meant to sit upright, but I pressed her gently down until she was folded between us on the seat.

Bastion slid in from the other side, shutting the door.

His arm came around, pulling her immediately into his chest. He kissed her hair, then her temple.

She was taught to hide her pain. It would take a lot more than a few words to show her it was safe to bleed in front of us.