Visit

I left the study, my blood boiling with a mixture of frustration and something else I refused to name.

I made it to the top of the stairs when I heard it. A voice. Not Stephan’s.

It was coming from the slightly ajar door of the guest room Brielle and Atalia were staying in. I hesitated, then crept closer.

"...yes, he has her," Brielle’s voice whispered, trembling. "No, he doesn't suspect... I am doing what you asked... Please, don't hurt him... I will tell you where they are going..."

I froze. My hand hovered over the doorknob.

Brielle. The sweet woman making pancakes. The woman Stephan had saved.

She was on the phone.

"Barcelona," Brielle whispered into the phone. "They are going to Barcelona tomorrow to find Dante."

My heart stopped. She wasn't a victim. She was a mole. I stepped back, the floorboard creaking beneath my foot.

Inside the room, the whispering stopped instantly.

The floorboard groaned under my foot—a high-pitched whine that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet hallway.

Inside the room, the whispering cut off instantly.

I held my breath, pressing my back against the wall, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. A shadow moved under the crack of the door. The handle turned.

I didn't wait. I bolted.

I made it to my room and slipped inside just as I heard the guest room door creak open down the hall. I leaned against the heavy wood of my own door, sliding the lock into place with trembling fingers.

Brielle. The woman with the warm pancakes and the sad eyes. The woman who claimed Stephan was a savior. She was selling us out.

My mind raced. “Barcelona... tomorrow...”

She had given up our location. If I didn't tell Stephan, we were walking into a trap. If I did tell him... what would he do? He was a man who solved problems with bullets and burials. If I told him, Brielle—and maybe little Atalia—would be collateral damage.

I looked at the window. The moon hung heavy and indifferent over the estate.

"Dammit," I hissed into the darkness. "Why do I have to have a conscience?"

The next morning, the air in the house was brittle.

I came downstairs dragging my suitcase, heavy-eyed and hopped up on adrenaline. Stephan was already by the door, checking his phone. He looked infuriatingly fresh—crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle, a gun holster barely concealed beneath his arm.

Brielle was there, too. She was packing a small bag for Atalia. When she saw me, she froze. Her eyes were wide, rimmed with red, pleading. She knew. She knew I had heard something.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Stephan looked up, his grey eyes scanning my face with the precision of a radar.

Brielle was there, too. She was packing a small bag for Atalia. When she saw me, she froze. Her eyes were wide, rimmed with red, pleading. She knew. She knew I had heard something.

"You look terrible," he noted flatly. "Did the ghosts keep you up?"

"Something like that," I muttered, gripping the handle of my luggage.

I looked at Brielle. She was trembling, clutching Atalia’s hand so tight the little girl squirmed. Please, her eyes begged.

Stephan’s gaze flicked between us. He sensed it—the thick, unspoken tension. He narrowed his eyes. "Is there something you want to share, Alina?"

This was it. The crossroads.

If I told him, I saved our skins but doomed a mother and child. If I kept quiet, I was gambling with my own life.

I looked at Atalia, who gave me a sleepy, innocent wave.

"No," I lied, the word tasting like ash. "Just wondering if your private jet has decent coffee. Or do I need to bring my own?"

Stephan stared at me for a second longer, his expression unreadable. Then, he turned away.

"The coffee is Colombian. Let’s go."

As I walked past Brielle, she let out a breath that sounded like a sob. I didn't look at her. I just hoped I hadn't just signed my death warrant.

The jet was obscene. Cream leather seats, gold accents, and a bar fully stocked with liquor that probably cost more than my aunt’s house.

Stephan sat across from me, reviewing documents on a tablet. We had been in the air for an hour, and he hadn't said a word. The silence was suffocating.

"You're tapping your finger again," I said, breaking the quiet.

Stephan didn't look up. "And you are fidgeting. You’ve adjusted your seatbelt four times in ten minutes."

"I don't like flying," I lied. "Especially with international fugitives."

He finally looked up, closing the tablet cover with a snap. "You are hiding something, Alina. You have been jumpy since we left the house. And you refused to eat Brielle’s breakfast."

I stiffened. "I wasn't hungry."

"From what I noticed, you are always hungry," he countered dryly. "You eat like a linebacker."

"Hey!" I threw a small throw pillow at him.

He caught it effortlessly with one hand, not even flinching. A ghost of a smile touched his lips—arrogant, annoying, and devastatingly handsome.

"Talk to me," he said, tossing the pillow back. It landed in my lap. "If we are going to find Dante, I need your head in the game. Not worrying about whatever moral dilemma is eating you alive."

I looked out the window at the sea of clouds below. "Do you trust her?" I asked quietly. "Brielle?"

Stephan went still. "I trust no one. That is how I am still alive."

"But she lives in your house. She cooks your food."

"She is useful," Stephan said, his voice cooling. "And she has nowhere else to go. Desperation makes for loyalty, usually. Why? Did she say something to you?"

I gripped the armrest. I could tell him right now. She’s leaking info.

But then I remembered Atalia’s smile. He needs love, she had said.

"No," I said softly. "She just... she seems scared of you."

Stephan let out a huff, leaning back and stretching his long legs out, his shoe brushing against my ankle. He didn't pull back. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up my leg.

"Good," he murmured, his eyes locking on mine. "Fear keeps people in line."

"Is that what you want from me?" I challenged, leaning forward. "Fear?"

Stephan watched me, his gaze dropping to my lips, then back up to my eyes. The air in the pressurized cabin suddenly felt thin.

"No," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Fear is boring. I want your fire, Alina. Even if it burns me."

My breath hitched. He held my gaze, and for a moment, the mask slipped. I saw the hunger there—raw and terrifying.

"Sir?"

The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, shattering the moment. "We are beginning our descent into Barcelona. ETA twenty minutes."

Stephan blinked, the mask slamming back into place. He pulled his leg away, breaking the contact.

"Buckle up," he said, his voice devoid of the heat that had been there seconds ago. "Barcelona is not a vacation. Dante is not a friend. And if things go wrong..."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, sleek pistol. He held it out to me, handle first.

I stared at it. "I’m a healer, Stephan. I don't shoot people."

"You are a Lyubov now," he said grimly, forcing the gun into my hand. It was heavy, cold. "And in my world, healers die first. Take it."

I wrapped my fingers around the grip. It felt wrong. Yet, it felt necessary.

"Welcome to Barcelona, Alina," he whispered.