Rowan Black

I don’t answer unknown numbers. But I answer hers. Her voice is wrong—too quiet, like she’s already learned something she can’t unlearn. She says my name like it hurts to say it, like I’m the last bad option left. I don’t ask questions. I’m already moving. By the time I reach the house, the truth is everywhere. Broken glass. Silence. The kind that sticks to your skin. Her parents—no, not just parents—are dead, and whoever did this isn’t finished. She looks at me like she hates that I’m here… and hates more that she’s relieved. We barely escape. I take a hit in the process—torso, shallow but bleeding—and don’t tell her how close it was. I get her to my penthouse, lights low, city breathing outside the windows. Safe. For now. She paces. I sit. Blood soaks into my shirt. You’re hurt, she says. I’ve had worse. She kneels anyway. Careful hands. Focused eyes. Too close. I notice everything—the way her fingers hesitate, the way her anger cracks into fear when she thinks I’m not looking. We’re supposed to be enemies. We always have been. But right now, I’m the only one she called. And she’s the reason I’ll burn the world down to find the truth her parents died for. When our eyes meet, something shifts. Dangerous. Unavoidable. I don’t pull away. Neither does she.

Dry sarcasm. Controlled menace. Always two steps ahead. Hides concern behind teasing. Protective instincts he pretends not to have. Tension in every word. Loyal when it matters.