The black SUV cut through the sleeping city like a phantom, tires whispering over asphalt, windows tinted darker than midnight. Elira sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, silent. Not withdrawn. Not afraid. Just calculating.
Azriel drove like a man who owned the road—one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift like it could become a weapon at any moment. The quiet between them wasn't peace. It was potential energy waiting to detonate.
"This place of yours," Elira said finally, her voice a scalpel. "You always bring fugitives there, or am I the first exception?"
Azriel didn't glance at her. "I don't bring anyone there. Not even ghosts."
"So I'm special. Should I be flattered or concerned?"
"You should be armed."
"Always am."
They lapsed back into silence, the city blurring around them. Elira wasn't sure what unnerved her more—the fact that she was willingly stepping into enemy territory, or that part of her didn't mind.
The building rose like a knife against the pale sky, faceless and ominous. They entered through a private underground garage. She watched Azriel press his thumb to a scanner—biometric security, silent and unforgiving.
The elevator climbed directly to the top floor, no stops, no interruptions. She caught her reflection in the polished steel walls: shadows beneath her eyes, blood still beneath her nails, and that ever-present blade of caution behind her stare.
The doors opened.
Azriel's penthouse greeted her with silence and shadow. Cold, modern, impersonal. Steel and glass kissed by early light. The skyline stretched behind the transparent walls, giving the illusion that the entire city bowed beneath his domain.
Elira stepped inside.
Black marble countertops. Sleek furnishings. A wall-mounted arsenal partially hidden behind matte panels. No clutter. No warmth. Not even a speck of dust.
"Cozy," she muttered.
Azriel dropped his keys on the counter. "It's not supposed to be."
"So this is the castle. Fitting for the king of ruin."
"Better than bleeding in the street."
"You think steel walls make you immortal?"
"No. But they make me harder to find. And harder to kill."
She tilted her head. "Paranoia suits you."
"So does vengeance."
Her boots echoed as she crossed the floor. "You and vengeance should get married."
He didn't smile. "Already engaged."
Their eyes met. A pause, thick with the heat of something more ancient than lust—war, fire, betrayal.
"Where do I sleep?" she asked, tone sharp.
"Anywhere but my bed."
"Like I'd touch your sheets."
"You looked close to doing worse last night."
"Fuck you."
"Try harder, sweetheart."
She clenched her jaw, fists curling. "You're insufferable."
"You're still here."
"Only because we have mutual enemies. Don't mistake necessity for tolerance."
He stepped closer. "Don't mistake proximity for power."
"I could slit your throat in your sleep."
He leaned in, voice barely a breath. "You won't. Because you want answers."
"No," she whispered, inches from him, "I want blood."
His mouth tilted. Not a smile. Not quite. "Good. Then we're on the same page."
She turned away sharply and stormed across the space. The armory wall whispered open under her hand. Guns, knives, data drives. Familiarity in cold steel.
He moved to the kitchen, shedding his jacket and rolling his sleeves. Even in the domestic stillness, there was tension in his movements. Precision. Restraint. Violence veiled in silk.
"Caelum dropped off supplies this morning," he muttered. "You eat, or just glare?"
"Depends. You cook or poison?"
"Both. Keeps life interesting."
Elira sank into a seat at the island, eyes never leaving him.
He moved like a storm pretending to be a man. Every reach, every knife flick through vegetables, every twist of his wrist—it all screamed control. Trained hands. Hands that had broken necks, carved through flesh. But right now, they cracked eggs.
She watched. Unmoving. Like a blade waiting for the right heartbeat.
The silence stretched.
She finally spoke, low and clipped. "What about Talon?"
"He's at Caelum's penthouse. Working."
"He hates you."
"I know. Doesn't mean he's careless. He's focused where it matters. With Caelum. Thalia's there too."
A beat. She stared into the black coffee he slid across to her.
"And I'm here. With you. In your fortress."
"You could've walked away."
"I still might."
"Then finish the toast first."
Elira picked it up out of spite more than hunger. Her eyes drifted to the skyline again. The city still slept beneath them. And somehow, she felt more exposed here than she ever had in the field.
He sat across from her, arms folded. Watching her the same way he did data files and enemies—measured, calculating.
She shoved the plate away. "This wasn't supposed to happen."
"Which part? You not killing me, or me not killing you?"
She glared. "All of it. I was sent to take you out. It was supposed to be simple. Efficient. One bullet, one body. Now look at me. Sitting in your kitchen. Eating."
"Then maybe you're losing your edge."
"Or maybe you're playing a game I haven't figured out yet."
He tilted his head. "Maybe."
She leaned in, elbows on the counter. "What's your angle, Azriel? What's the truth behind those cold eyes and that perfect control? Because I know everything about your tactics, your movements, your file. But you? I don't know you."
"Good. That means I'm still alive."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get."
She sat back, scoffing. "Figures. You know every broken shard of me. And I have nothing. That's not fair."
"Fair died years ago. Alongside mercy."
"So what do you want from me?"
He stood slowly. "I don't want you, Elira. I want results. I want fire. I want something that burns cleaner than revenge."
Her voice dropped. "Maybe you have something with the Moreaux. It's your family, after all. Maybe you want something from them. Maybe you're using me. That's why I'm alive. That's why I'm still here."
He didn't answer.
Didn't confirm.
Didn't deny.
She stared at him, rage and confusion fighting in her chest.
"Say something."
"No. Because right now, I'm the only one in this room who knows where this leads. And you? You're still trying to decide if you want to survive it."
Silence.
She dropped her gaze. Not out of shame. But out of strategy.
He turned back to the counter, wiping his han
ds.
Elira whispered, mostly to herself, "This isn't peace. This is a ceasefire."
He didn't look back.
"Then enjoy the silence while it lasts."
To be continued...