Chapter 11: Warning Shot
●Flashback
Sophia went home that evening with too many thoughts and a tight feeling in her chest. The quiet warmth of her family's house, usually a sanctuary, felt thin tonight. The air smelled of her mother's vanilla candles, but all she could think of was Aira's hopeful smile at the café earlier, the way her friend's eyes had lit up when she'd mentioned Rowan's name. It was a look that promised a heartbreak Sophia knew all too well.
She found Rowan in the study.
He was standing near the window,jacket off, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand resting on the back of a leather armchair as if bracing himself. The city lights reflected faintly in the glass, sharp and cold pinpricks against the night. He looked like he always did—a statue of control, his posture flawless, his expression giving nothing away. But the room felt charged, like the quiet before a storm.
She didn't knock.
"Are you serious?"she asked, her voice cutting through the stillness.
Rowan didn't turn around. "About what?" His tone was flat, a deliberate wall.
"Don't do that," Sophia snapped, shutting the heavy door behind her with a soft click. She crossed her arms, holding herself tight. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
He sighed, a slow, quiet exhalation that spoke of weariness, and finally faced her. His eyes were calm pools of obsidian, but she knew him too well. That perfect calm was his tell. It meant he was hiding a whirlwind.
"Aira," Sophia said, the name hanging in the air between them like an indictment.
Silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly, measuring the distance between his secrets and her fear.
Rowan's jaw tightened. Just a little, a faint ripple in his otherwise still surface.
Sophia stepped closer, the Persian rug muffling her steps. "I need to know something, Rowan. And don't lie to me."
"I don't lie to you," he said, his voice low.
She laughed once, a short, bitter sound. "You don't tell me the truth either."
That landed. A flicker of something—pain, maybe, or acknowledgment—crossed his features before the mask settled back into place. He looked away, his gaze drifting to the bookshelves lined with volumes he'd inherited but rarely read.
Sophia swallowed, forcing herself to stay steady. Her own heart was hammering. "Are you serious about her?"
His eyes snapped back to hers. Dark. Sharp. A warning flashed in their depths. "That's not a question you get to ask."
"Yes, it is," she shot back, her voice rising despite her effort to control it. "Because she's my friend. She's not one of your business associates or a pawn in some deal. She's a person. She trusts me."
The word friend softened something in him. Barely. But she saw it—a slight easing of the tension in his shoulders, a minute drop of his guard. It was the part of him that still remembered how to care.
"She's innocent," Sophia continued, her voice dropping to a whisper now, pleading. "Rowan, she doesn't see the world the way we do. She's spent her whole life in a beautiful, empty cage. She believes people mean what they say. She believes kindness doesn't come with a price tag or a hidden clause."
He said nothing, but his silence was a form of listening she rarely got from him.
"And if you're just… entertaining yourself," she went on, the pain she felt for Aira creeping into her tone, "if this is boredom, or control, or whatever dark, restless thing you call curiosity—then stop. Right now. Before she gets in any deeper."
Rowan stepped toward her, closing the distance. The air grew colder. "You think I would hurt her?"
Sophia met his gaze without flinching, drawing on every ounce of their shared history, every childhood battle, every moment of loyalty. "I think you're capable of hurting anyone without even meaning to. Your world… it leaves marks. And she's made of glass, Rowan. She'll shatter."
That hit harder than anger. He exhaled slowly, a ragged sound, and rubbed a hand over his face, a rare gesture of fatigue. "I'm not playing with her."
"Then what are you doing?" she demanded, needing the truth like oxygen.
Rowan didn't answer immediately. He walked to the sideboard and poured two fingers of amber whiskey, not drinking it, just holding the glass, watching the liquid swirl. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low she had to strain to hear it. It was honest. And it was dangerous.
"I'm trying not to destroy her."
Sophia's breath caught in her throat. The raw admission was more terrifying than any evasion.
"That doesn't sound comforting," she managed to say.
"It's not meant to be. It's the truth."
She studied him then—not as her powerful, intimidating brother, not as the man whose name commanded fear in certain rooms—but as the boy who used to sit by Lyanna's sickbed for days on end, holding her thin hand, reading to her in a voice soft with grief. He was still in there, buried under layers of steel and shadow.
"She's already falling," Sophia said softly, the words aching. "I see it. She doesn't even know she is, but she's smiling more. She checks her phone like its chime is the most important sound in the world. She talks about you like you're… different. Like you've seen her when no one else ever bothered to look."
Rowan closed his eyes for a long moment, as if her words were physical blows.
"If you step into her life," Sophia whispered, taking another step closer, "you don't get to step out. Not without consequences. Not for her. And," she added pointedly, "not for you."
"I know," he said, the words gritted out.
"Do you?" Her voice broke slightly. "Because I love you. You're my brother. But I love her, too. She's the first real, good thing I've found in that university, and I won't forgive you if you break her. I won't just be angry. I'll be your enemy."
He looked at her then—really looked, his gaze stripping away all pretense. She saw the conflict there, the war between the man shaped by blood and legacy, and the pull toward something gentle.
"I won't touch her heart," Rowan said, each word deliberate and heavy, "unless I intend to protect it. With everything I am. Even," he added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "from myself."
Sophia searched his face, looking for the lie, the hidden agenda, the flicker of insincerity.
She didn't find one. All she found was a terrifying sincerity.
"Good," she said finally, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a weary hope. "Because if you hurt her—brother or not—I'll burn your world down myself. I'll start with the things you actually care about."
A corner of his mouth lifted. Just barely. The ghost of a smile. "I'd expect nothing less."
Sophia turned to leave, her hand on the cool brass doorknob. She paused, not looking back. "One more thing."
"Yes?"
"She's not like the women in your world," she said, her voice firm. "The ones who understand the rules, who play the games. She won't survive them. She doesn't even know they're being played."
"I'm not playing," Rowan replied, his voice final.
Sophia nodded once, a sharp, accepting jerk of her head, and left, pulling the door shut behind her with a soft, definitive thud.
Rowan stood alone again in the sudden, profound quiet. He set the untouched whiskey glass down with a quiet clink. The confession hung in the air, tasting bitter and true. He looked back out at the city, at the web of lights that represented his territory, his responsibilities, his gilded cage.
Aira Grace, he thought. She was already changing the chemistry of his blood, softening edges he'd spent years hardening. She made him want to be someone else—someone worthy of that soft, trusting smile.
And that, he realized as a cold dread settled in his stomach, scared him more than any rival, any threat, any enemy ever had.