22 — Fault

Smoke clung to the ceiling, thin and bitter—a warning that refused to vanish.

The Widow was gone.

But the fallout pressed in on them all, heavy as a hand around the throat.

Eirwen stood in the center of the ruined safehouse, breath too quick, pulse hammering. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from the effort of holding herself together in the aftermath.

Domenik watched her.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t offer comfort.

His restraint was a cage. Iron-willed. Deliberate. It weighed more than any touch.

“Say it,” she demanded, voice low and raw. “Say what happened the night my family died.”

The words cut clean.

Domenik held her gaze, unblinking. “You already know.”

“No,” she snapped. “I know what the reports say. I know what’s been erased. I know you were there.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“I was.”

That admission landed like a blow.

Talia sucked in a breath behind them. Heller shifted, uneasy, as if standing at the edge of a cliff with no safe ground.

Eirwen stepped closer, voice sharpened to a blade. “Did you kill them?”

“No.”

The answer was immediate. Certain.

“But you let it happen.”

He didn’t deny it.

The silence that followed was savage.

“I knew it was coming,” Domenik said at last, each word measured, merciless. “I knew the order had been given.”

Her throat closed. “And you did nothing.”

“I did what I had to do to survive. To outlast the ones who signed the order.”

She laughed, broken, dangerous. “You watched my family burn so you could take a throne.”

His eyes darkened—not anger, but something deeper, something that never left his bones.

“My brother died trying to stop them,” he said quietly. “He stood in the way. They erased him.”

Eirwen froze.

“I learned the price of defiance,” he went on. “And I learned what real power costs.”

Her voice shook. “So you chose silence.”

“I chose survival,” he said. “I live with it every day.”

She stepped into his space, her fury a living thing. “You let them die.”

“Yes.”

The word landed like a gunshot.

Her chest heaved. “Say it again.”

“I let them die.”

She raised her hand—hesitation flickered, but he let her.

Her fingers hovered at his throat, close enough for him to feel the heat, the threat, the question.

“You think that makes you untouchable?” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “It makes me accountable.”

Her breath caught.

He stepped forward—slow, controlled—invading her space, not to trap, but to claim what was his.

“You want to hate me. You should. But don’t mistake hatred for power.”

Her jaw clenched. “You don’t get to decide what I feel.”

“No,” he said. “But I get to give you the truth.”

His hand found her lower back—not pulling, not gentle, but firm enough to anchor her. Controlled. Possessive.

He didn’t let her move away.

“You’re here because you want answers,” he said, voice a low command. “Not revenge.”

The contact hit—impact, not comfort. It forced her to breathe.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” she whispered. “You’re trying to pull me under you. Make me smaller.”

His eyes burned. “No. I’m keeping you upright.”

She swallowed hard.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

He leaned in, words flat and final. “I do when the world is hunting you, and you’re too angry to see the knives at your back.”

Her pulse kicked. “You don’t own me.”

His mouth curved—a promise, not a smile.

“I know. That’s why you’re still breathing.”

It hit harder than a threat.

His grip tightened, not to hurt, but to prove he could—then loosened, deliberately, giving her space he could take back at any second.

“You want to kill me?” he asked. “Do it. But don’t pretend you don’t feel the line between power and control.”

Her breath shuddered.

“I should hate you.”

“You do,” he said. “And you came back anyway.”

Her hands trembled at her sides.

Outside, boots thundered. Orders snapped. The Civic Shadow was closing in.

The building shook.

Domenik moved without thought—body slotting in front of her, weapon drawn, a shield without apology.

“This conversation isn’t finished,” he said, iron in his voice. “But it doesn’t end tonight.”

She stared at his back—broad, immovable, a wall she’d crash against before the world ever reached her.

“You don’t get to protect me,” she said.

His answer was instant, dangerous, absolute.

“I already am.”

An explosion rocked the lower level.

Dust sifted from above.

Domenik reached back, gripped her wrist, and pulled her into motion—not pleading, not asking—commanding.

“Move.”

She moved.

Not because she was weak.

Because in the end, she trusted his judgment even as she hated him for it.

They ran together into smoke and chaos, down fractured halls and into an uncertain future—choices ahead, no mercy behind.

And nothing about it would be gentle.

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Next: 23 — Path