IN YOUR ARMS

The Lumen Foundation gala smelled of white lilies and old champagne, and Amara Bennett had spent the last three years learning how to move through rooms like this the way a swimmer moved through cold water quickly enough not to feel it, carefully enough never to look like she was in a hurry. She was two glasses of wine into the evening and one photograph away from the headline her publicist actually wanted when the sound behind her changed. It wasn't loud. That was what she would remember later. A raised voice. A scraping chair. The strange pause that passed through two hundred people at once, the animal part of a crowd recognizing danger before the mind caught up. Amara turned. And saw the blade. A man she didn't recognize was moving toward her, lean and badly fitted in a borrowed-looking suit, something metallic flashing in his fist. She had just enough time to understand that the knife was meant for her. Then she froze. Her body simply stopped obeying. The man crossed the final few feet. Except he never reached her. Roman Kane did. One moment he had been across the ballroom, speaking to two members of the foundation board. The next, he was between Amara and the knife, his hand closing around the attacker's wrist with a sharp sound like a car door slamming shut. The blade struck his hand. And shattered. Not bent. Not deflected. Shattered. Metal fragments scattered across the marble floor. Roman didn't flinch. He didn't even look at his hand. For one impossible second, Amara could only stare. There was no blood. No cut. Not even a red mark across his palm. Roman released the man's wrist and stepped back with the calm of someone closing a door rather than someone who had just stopped an attempted murder. Then the room exploded. Someone screamed. Chairs overturned. Security rushed forward, far too late to matter. Phones appeared from every direction, their screens glowing as dozens of people recorded what had just happened. Amara barely noticed. Her eyes remained fixed on Roman's hand. “Are you hurt?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Too quiet. “I'm...” Her voice shook. “I'm fine. But you She pointed at his hand. “The knife hit you.” “It was a cheap blade.” That wasn't an answer. Roman slipped his hand into his pocket before she could look again. “How did you get here?” she asked. “You were on the other side of the room.” Something flickered behind his dark eyes. “Adrenaline does strange things to distance.” It was a lie. Amara knew it. She had seen him. He hadn't run. He had simply been somewhere else and then he hadn't been. Before she could question him again, security reached them. “Ms. Bennett, we need to get you somewhere private.” A woman in a dark blazer took Amara gently by the arm and guided her away. Amara looked back. Roman was already surrounded by men in dark suits. He caught her eye across the room. For a brief second, his expression was unreadable. Then the wall of suits closed around him. He disappeared. The attacker went down beneath three security officers. Strangely, he didn't resist. He didn't speak. He simply allowed himself to be restrained and taken toward a service exit as though whatever he'd intended to accomplish had never been the point. Amara was led into a private side room. Only then did her hands begin to shake. The door closed behind her, muffling the chaos of the ballroom. She pulled out her phone. Fourteen missed calls. Six from Maya. Three from her publicist. The rest from numbers she didn't recognize. The story was already spreading. Her phone lit up again. Maya. Amara stared at the name for a second before answering. “Amara! Amara, oh my God, are you okay? I've seen it four times already. It's everywhere!” Maya's voice arrived in one breathless rush. “I'm okay,” Amara said. “Nobody touched me.” “Somebody had a knife! I watched twelve seconds of grainy video of a man lunging at you, and then some guy just” Maya stopped. “I don't even know what I watched. It looked fake.” “It wasn't fake.” Amara looked down at her trembling hands. “He grabbed the knife and it broke.” Silence. “Broke how?” “I don't know.” Amara swallowed. “There wasn't a mark on him. Not even a scratch.” The door opened. A man in his forties stepped inside, dressed in a gray suit. His expression was calm in a way that immediately made Amara uneasy. “Ms. Bennett. My apologies. I'm with the Kane family office.” Amara frowned. “I'm on the phone.” “Of course.” He didn't leave. “I wanted to confirm that you won't be speaking to the press before Mr. Kane has had a chance to reach you directly.” “I have a publicist.” “Of course you do.” His smile was polite and empty. “I only ask that you confirm it. Tonight, specifically. Not to the press. Not to anyone outside your own team.” Maya's voice continued faintly through the phone. “Amara? Who's there?” Amara looked at the man. She thought about the knife. Roman's impossible speed. His untouched hand. And the way the man in front of her spoke as though none of this surprised him. “I won't talk to the press tonight,” she said. “Thank you.” He turned toward the door, then paused. “For what it's worth, you're not in trouble.” He looked back at her. “But be careful what you say about tonight. Some things sound like nonsense right up until they don't.” Then he left. The door clicked shut. “Amara?” Maya asked. “What did he mean?” “Some guy from Kane's office. He wanted me to promise not to talk to the press.” “And?” “I agreed.” “Good. Because I'm coming to get you.” Amara glanced toward the closed door. “I think they want me to leave through a back entrance.” “Of course they do.” There was a pause. Then Maya's voice changed. “Amara the video.” “What about it?” “It doesn't just look like he saved you.” Amara went still. “What does it look like?” Maya hesitated. “Like he was already holding you before the knife. Like it was something else entirely, and the knife just happened to be there too.” Amara looked at the glass of water sitting untouched on the table. Her hands had finally stopped shaking. But her mind hadn't. She remembered Roman crossing the room in less time than it took to blink. She remembered the blade breaking against his hand. And she remembered the expression on his face just before the crowd separated them. Not fear. Not surprise. Something closer to calculation. “I don't know,” she whispered. Then, after a moment: “But I don't think it was a threat.” She wasn't sure, even as she said it, that she believed herself.