The silence of the safehouse felt wrong that night. Elena had grown used to the hum of the old refrigerator, the creak of the floorboards whenever Michael paced, even the faint whistle of the wind through the cracked window frame. But now, the air itself seemed to hold its breath, heavy with a dread she could not name.
Michael sensed it too. He stood by the window, his gun holstered but his shoulders tense. The glow from the single lamp painted sharp lines across his face.
“He’s close,” Michael muttered, not looking at her. His voice was low, clipped, as if admitting it would make it worse.
Elena swallowed hard, her heart hammering. She had told herself again and again that Michael could protect her, that this safehouse was secure. Yet Damian had a way of tearing apart illusions. She co
