Chapter 5: The Logical Fairy Tale
After we ate the "nutrient-dense" dinner Caden provided (which was actually a delicious grilled salmon that probably cost fifty dollars a pound), Maisie wouldn't let him leave. She was determined. And when my daughter sets her mind to something, not even a fortress of concrete and glass can stand in her way.
"You have to read it," Maisie insisted, shoving the glittery pink book into Caden's hand. "Mommy's throat is tired. You have the big voice."
Caden looked down at the book like it was a live grenade. He looked at me, his eyes pleading for an exit strategy. I just crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe of the media room, a small, tired smirk on my face.
"Rule number five," I whispered. "Never negotiate with a five-year-old."
He let out a breath that sounded like a mechanical hiss. "Fine. Sit."
He sat on the edge of the sleek, grey sofa. He looked entirely out of place, a man built for combat and blueprints surrounded by plush pillows and a girl clutching a neon unicorn. He opened the book, clearing his throat with a sound that was far too deep for a story about a magical forest.
"Once upon a time," Caden began, his voice flat and monotone, "there was a kingdom that lacked a centralized government. A pony with wings, hereafter referred to as 'Sparkle,' attempted to facilitate a trade agreement with the local forest dwellers."
"Caden!" I laughed, the sound making my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the smoke. "You can't read it like a legal brief! It's a fairy tale."
He looked at me, his jet-black eyes intense. "The plot is nonsensical, Amara. Sparkle is a horse. Horses do not have the vocal cords for diplomacy."
"Just read the words on the page, Robot," I teased.
He turned back to the book, his jaw tight. He actually tried. He didn't do voices, and he certainly didn't do sound effects, but as he read about Sparkle finding her way home, his voice softened. Just a fraction. It was a low, gravelly rumble that filled the room, making the air feel warm and safe.
I watched him. I watched the way his large thumb held the page down, careful not to tear the thin paper. I watched the way he didn't pull away when Maisie eventually leaned her head against his arm, her eyes drifting shut.
My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest. I was in trouble. I was in deep, deep trouble. I was supposed to be figuring out how to get my life back, how to find a new apartment and a new job. But standing there, watching this cold, hard man protect my daughter's peace, I didn't want to leave.
I wanted to know what happened to the man who became a machine. I wanted to know what those scars on his arms meant. And mostly, I wanted to know if that "glitch" I saw when he looked at me was real.
"She's out," Caden whispered.
He didn't move. He stayed perfectly still so he wouldn't wake her, the pink book still open in his lap. He looked up at me, and for the first time, I didn't see the "protector" or the "boss." I saw a man who looked... lonely.
"I'll take her," I said, stepping forward.
"No," he said. It wasn't a growl this time. It was just an observation. "You're still shivering. Go to bed, Amara. I'll bring her up."
I didn't argue. I couldn't. I turned and walked toward the stairs, my head spinning with thoughts of cedarwood and pink unicorns.
As I laid down in the guest bed, I realized that Caden wasn't just keeping us safe from the people who burned the hotel. He was keeping us safe from the world. But who was going to save me from him?
I couldn't help it. High-vibration energy doesn't do well with being told "no," and Caden's list of protocols was basically a dare.
It was nearly midnight. Maisie was curled up under the duvet, hugging "Pinky" the unicorn like her life depended on it. The house was silent, save for the low hum of the advanced security system. Caden was in his office—I could see the glow of his monitors reflecting off the glass railing of the landing.
I should have stayed in bed. I should have been grateful for the silk sheets and the safety. But Rule Number One was itching at the back of my brain: Do not enter the basement.
In my experience, when a man like Caden tells you not to look somewhere, it's because that's where the truth is buried. And I was tired of being the only person in this house who didn't know what was going on.
I crept downstairs, my bare feet silent on the cold concrete. I avoided the kitchen and the office, slipping toward a heavy steel door tucked behind the floating staircase. It didn't have a handle, just a small glass pad. I held my breath and pressed my hand against it.
Click.
The door hissed open. Apparently, "The Variable" had been added to the biometric locks. Caden was slipshod for a robot, or maybe he just didn't think I had the guts to defy him.
The stairs leading down were dark, lit only by recessed blue lights. At the bottom, the air changed. It didn't smell like cedarwood or expensive air purifiers anymore. It smelled like oil, cold metal, and old adrenaline.
It wasn't a basement. It was an armory.
Walls of matte-black cases lined the room. On the center table sat the disassembled pieces of a high-grade rifle, the steel gleaming under the blue light. But it wasn't the guns that stopped my heart. It was the wall of photographs.
There were dozens of them. Blurry shots of men in suits, overhead satellite views of the Royal Crest Hotel, and a map of the city with red pins stuck into it. In the center of the collage was a photo of a man I recognized. The man in the dark hoodie from the hotel hallway.
"I told you not to come down here, Amara."
I didn't scream, but only because my throat was too tight. I turned around. Caden was standing at the base of the stairs. He wasn't wearing his white shirt anymore. He was in a black tactical vest, his arms bare and corded with tension. He looked like a weapon that had been unsheathed.
"You're not an architect," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Architects don't have sniper rifles and dossiers on arsonists."
He walked toward me, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn't look angry; he looked disappointed, which somehow felt worse. He stopped when he was inches away, forcing me to look up at his dark, frozen face.
"I build things, Amara. But sometimes, you have to tear down the rot before you can lay the foundation," he said. His voice was a low, dangerous growl. "You just walked into the middle of a war you aren't prepared for."
"Is that why you're helping me? Because I'm a witness? Or am I just... bait?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and jagged. Caden's eyes searched mine. For a second, I thought I saw that "glitch" again—a flicker of something that looked like raw, human pain. He reached out, his hand hovering near my neck, but he didn't touch me. He just gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.
"You're a distraction," he said, his voice dropping to a velvet rasp. "A variable I can't calculate. And right now, you're the only thing making me want to forget the mission."
My heart did a violent thud against my ribs. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He was a robot, a machine, a man of cold steel—and I wanted to break every single one of his protocols just to see what happened next.
"Then forget it," I whispered. "Just for a minute."
He stared at me, his jaw working. The silence in the armory was deafening. Then, he stepped back, the mask slamming back into place.
"Go upstairs, Amara. I'm locking the door. If you break Rule One again, I'm calling the cousin in Jersey. I don't care how much it rains."
He didn't wait for me to move. He turned back to the table and picked up a piece of the rifle, his fingers moving with mechanical precision. I stood there, shivering in my robe, realizing that the man I was falling for was even more dangerous than the people who tried to burn me alive.