Make My Heart Believe a Lie

Chapter 22

✨Shadows at the Edge✨

Nasir pov

Inside his small apartment, the silence felt too loud. He set his keys down, loosened his collar, washed his hands — and still her warmth stayed with him. He caught himself standing in the middle of the room, doing nothing, thinking of the way she’d said his name afterward, barely louder than a breath.

Nasir sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed a hand over his face.

This was dangerous.

Not because of her.

Because of him.

Because already he was wondering if she was awake, if she was replaying their evening too, if she regretted it or smiled at the ceiling the way women sometimes did when they were trying to understand their own hearts.

Because already, without meaning to, he was planning to walk past her street tomorrow.

Just to make sure she was safe.

Just to see her again.

And that — more than anything, more than the heat of the moment — frightened him most of all.

The apartment was quiet in the way that made every sound too sharp. Nasir closed the door behind him and leaned back against it for a long moment, letting the lock click into place. His hands itched—not from fatigue, but from the lingering tension that had followed him like a second skin since the street.

He hadn’t been afraid of danger in years. Not like this.

Not because he was being watched.

Because she had been.

Flora.

The thought alone made his chest tighten.

She was small, fragile in appearance, yet there was a fire there he couldn’t ignore—one he could barely name. It wasn’t just the fear that made him protective. It was the way she had chosen to face it, reckless and stubborn, a tiny defiance against the shadows lurking in every corner of her world.

He moved to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter. He could feel it—the watcher’s presence, still there, not visible but lingering in the mind’s periphery.

One man had tested her tonight. One man had seen her, noted her, decided she was worth the risk.

And Nasir knew—this wouldn’t be the last.

He should have been calculating, planning, analyzing. He should have stayed in the shadows himself, leaving her to learn caution.

But tonight had changed the rules. The moment he had touched her, even lightly, guided her through the street, shielded her from that figure—he had committed, silently, irrevocably.

A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. Dangerous, he thought. She didn’t even know the extent of it yet.

He ran a hand over his face, rubbing the tension out of his jaw. The city beyond his window was dark now, its lights scattered like embers. Somewhere far below, traffic hummed. Somewhere else, a person watched.

Always watching. Always calculating. Always waiting.

He knew that feeling well. That sense of being hunted, of danger pressing close. But now it was personal. She was in it, whether she realized it or not. And he wouldn’t let her face it alone.

Not fully.

He paced slowly to the window, the glass cool under his palms. The memory of her—the curve of her jaw, the way her fingers clutched at her bag, the tremor of breath when she realized someone was watching—stayed with him. He could almost feel the heat of her anxiety, the way it had jumped into him like electricity.

And it had been… intoxicating.

A faint flush warmed his cheeks at the thought. Dangerous. He told himself again: dangerous.

He needed control. He craved it. And yet, with her, every instinct pulled him forward, tethered him closer. He wanted to be near her, close enough that he could feel the rise and fall of her chest, quiet enough that no one else could intrude.

Even from across the room, even from the street outside.

He moved to the small desk in the corner, opened the laptop, and scanned through notes—figures, contacts, threads of the unseen world he ran. His network had already begun humming with activity: questions asked, faces noted, paths traced. The watcher from tonight would not make the mistake again. Nasir’s men would watch, quietly, invisibly. No confrontation unless he allowed it. No risk to her without his knowledge.

Everything was moving into place.

Yet the danger only made the tension between them more acute. He remembered the brush of her hand when she had steadied herself. The way her eyes had searched his for reassurance, trust, something she wasn’t willing to speak aloud. He remembered the faint warmth of her wrist in his fingers.

And a warning prickled down his spine: it wasn’t just danger from the world. It was this.

The slow burn, the tug that neither of them fully understood, the magnetic weight of proximity that was quietly dangerous.

It was unspoken. But it existed. And every calculated step he took to keep her safe only drew them closer.

He moved back to the window, staring out into the night. Somewhere in the town, shadows crept. Someone had noticed her.

Someone had decided she was worth attention. He had felt it, the way the street had changed when she had sensed it herself.

That awareness—the flicker of her pulse when she realized she was being followed—it was alive, urgent, unrelenting.

He couldn’t leave that alone.

A hand brushed against the edge of his desk.

He turned to see the faint reflection in the dark glass. Her face, imagined, pale under lamplight. Her anxiety, vivid in his mind. The warmth of her wrist, the faint catch in her breath.

His chest tightened.

She isn’t just a girl in town, he thought.

She’s a storm I can’t ignore.

And yet, he would. He had to. He had to stay calm, stay collected, keep the danger mapped and controlled. Every step he took on her behalf needed to be precise. Every move unseen. Every shadow accounted for.

But in the quiet, when the city slept and the lights flickered low, he allowed himself one small, reckless thought:

I wouldn’t mind being in the storm with her.

He turned from the window, chest heavy, mind racing. Plans to tighten security, check networks, interrogate contacts filled his thoughts—but underneath it all, the pulse of something unspoken beat steadily: attraction, tension, risk.

She didn’t know yet. She couldn’t know. And maybe she never would, not fully. But that was the point. She needed to survive, to grow, to trust. And he would let her—if he could.

But for the first time in years, Nasir realized: some things couldn’t be contained. Some feelings, some pulls, some dangers—they moved whether he was ready or not.

The watcher might still linger in the shadows.

Others might come. But he would not leave her alone. Not for a second.

And tonight, that was enough.

He finally allowed himself to lean back in the chair, fingers steepled under his chin, staring at the ceiling, planning the next moves, mapping threats. And all the while, the tension—the pull between them—settled into the quiet corners of his mind, dangerous, inevitable, and irresistible.