The black shape melts into the darkness of the horizon, disappearing as silently as it arrived. Gone. But the feeling of eyes on us remains, heavy and suffocating like the humid night air.
Stavros doesn't holster his gun. He keeps it in his hand, his knuckles white, scanning the empty black water where the threat just vanished.
"Did they see us?" I whisper, shivering despite the heat. The terrace feels like a stage, and the audience is hiding in the dark with rifles.
"They saw enough," he growls. "They know we're here. They're waiting for the right moment."
He turns to me. The fear in his eyes is gone, replaced by a cold, feral hunger that makes my breath hitch. He grabs my hand, pulling me not toward the safety of the reinforced glass doors, but down the stone steps toward the beach.
