They returned after nightfall.
The drive had been a vacuum of sound, the hum of the sedan's engine the only thing filling the space between them. Rhoda sat in the passenger seat, her hands still tingling from the cold touch of the vault's steel. She kept replaying the moment she'd looked her manager in the eye and lied—the ease of it was what terrified her most.
The safe house swallowed them the moment the door clicked shut. Rhoda kicked off her heels, the cold floor grounding her. The industrial loft felt different now; less like a temporary stop and more like the center of a world that was shrinking around them. She felt the weight of the day—the lying, the counting, the shadow of the vault—fall away, leaving her raw. She didn't turn around, but she heard the slow, methodical sound of Evan's leather gloves hitting the table. She didn't wait for him to speak this time.
"You were in my ear the whole time," she said, turning to face him. "Even when you weren't speaking, I could feel you watching."
"You're trembling," his voice was low and clinical.
"I'm calming down," she whispered. "The bank... It felt like a dream. Like I was watching someone else play my life."
"That wasn't someone else, Rhoda. That was you. The version of you that knows how to survive." His mouth curved, just barely.
"Come here."
He led her toward the bedroom, guiding rather than dragging, his hand never leaving her. He turned to her once they were inside the room. "You trusted me today," he said.
"You didn't give me much choice."
He moved into her space, a dark eclipse that blocked out the rest of the room. He didn't touch her yet, but she could feel the heat radiating from his chest against her back. He reached for her, his hands not quite touching her as he unbuttoned her blazer, sliding it off her shoulders. It hit the floor with a soft thud. He traced her body slowly, his dark, ink-black eyes searching hers with an intensity that felt like a physical intrusion. He turned her around.
"You followed every word," he murmured, his hand finally coming up to cradle her jaw. His thumb traced her lower lip, pulling it down just enough to see the wet shimmer of her teeth. "Even when your boss was inches away. Even when you could have ruined everything."
"I did what I had to," she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"No. You did what you were told." He leaned in, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear. "There's a difference."
The kiss that followed was a collision—dark, possessive, and hungry. It tasted of iron and salt, a desperate confirmation that they were both still breathing. Rhoda's hands flew to his shirt, clutching the fabric, pulling him closer as if she could merge into his skin.
He didn't break the kiss as he guided her backward, his movements sure and predatory, until the back of her knees hit the huge, soft bed. He pressed her down, his body a heavy, welcome weight above her.
Evan pulled back just enough to look at her, his breathing heavy, his expression a mask of coiled restraint. He reached down, his hand sliding up the hem of her skirt. His fingers were cool against her skin, a sharp contrast to the fire spreading through her blood.
He moved slow, agonizingly slow, his palm grazing the soft inner curve of her thigh. Rhoda arched toward him, a broken sound escaping her throat as his touch moved higher, inching toward the lace of her underwear.
He stopped just at the edge, his fingers hooked into the silk, his knuckles brushing the sensitive heat between her legs. He looked into her eyes, demanding she be present for this—demanding she own her desire.
"Do you want to?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a lethal, seductive growl. "Do you want me to stop being your handler and start being the man who takes you apart?"
"Don't stop," she choked out, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his head down. "I want... I want you to keep me. Just like you said."
The restraint snapped.
Evan's mouth crashed against hers again as his hand finally made contact, his fingers finding her slick and ready. He didn't move with gentleness; he moved with the same precision he used for his crimes—finding exactly what she needed to make her unravel.
Rhoda's head thrashed against the pillows, her vision blurring as the world narrowed down to the sensation of his hands and the rough friction of his clothes against her. He was marking her, claiming her in a way that had nothing to do with the bank and everything to do with the dark, magnetic pull that had existed since he first touched her.
He moved his mouth to her throat, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. A warning that she belonged to him.
"You're mine now," he whispered against her pulse, his voice thick with a dark, primal satisfaction. "Inside the bank and out of it. Don't ever forget who owns the air you breathe."
As he finally took her, burying himself deep, Rhoda felt the last of her old life vanish. She wasn't a teller anymore. She wasn't a victim. She was a woman lost in the shadow of a ghost, and as she clung to him, she realized she didn't want to be found.