Chapter 7
I don't go far.
That's the problem.
From the rooftop across the street, I watch the alley empty out—watch her stand there longer than she should, hand pressed to her chest like she's holding something fragile inside herself.
She almost said my name.
I felt it.
The moment stretched thin enough that one more second would've shattered it.
If she had said it out loud, I wouldn't have left.
That truth sits heavy in my lungs.
I turn away before instinct convinces me to go back.
Distance is a discipline.
I've practiced it longer than most people have been alive.
Tonight, it feels like a punishment.
The heroes don't move immediately.
They're learning.
They've seen me lose control—just enough to know where to push, not enough to know what happens if they succeed.
That makes them dangerous.
I fold space once, landing in a skeletal high-rise halfway through demolition. The wind howls through broken concrete and exposed rebar, loud enough to drown out thought.
I let gravity go.
Not violently.
But honestly.
The building groans as pressure bends its frame, metal screaming in protest. Dust rains from the ceiling. My hands curl at my sides, power surging unchecked for the first time since I left her.
''Mine''.
I say it out loud this time.
The word tastes different without her there.
Sharper.
I slam my palm into the air and force the pressure inward, compressing it, crushing it down until the walls crack but don't collapse.
Control.
Always control.
I sink to one knee, breathing hard.
This is what they don't understand.
It's not that I want to burn the world down.
It's that I can—and choose not to.
And now there's someone who makes that choice harder.
I feel him before he steps out of the shadows.
The hero.
Same one from the café.
Confident enough to follow me. Stupid enough to think I wouldn't notice.
"You're slipping," he says, voice echoing through the hollow floor. "That was sloppy."
I don't look at him.
"Leave," I say.
He laughs. "You're protecting her."
That gets my attention.
Slowly, I stand.
Gravity tightens—not around him, but around me. A warning. A promise.
"Elara doesn't belong to you," he continues. "She's a civilian. A variable. We can keep her safe."
I turn then.
"From what?" I ask calmly. "From choice?"
"From you."
I take one step toward him.
The air bends.
"You don't get to say her name," I tell him. "You don't get to decide what she needs."
"She'll break you," he says. "People like her always do."
I smile.
Not kindly.
"She already has," I say. "And you still don't understand what that means."
He shifts, implant flaring, trying to compensate for pressure he can't quantify.
"We'll put her under protection," he says. "Observation. Limited movement. You stay away, and she stays alive."
The building creaks.
I'm very careful with my next breath.
"If you put a hand on her," I say quietly, "I won't stop at restraint."
His eyes widen.
Not fear.
Calculation.
"You won't risk it," he says. "You won't prove us right."
I step close enough that the gravity between us hums.
"You think this is about being right?" I murmur. "I don't care what you call me."
I lean in.
"What I care about," I continue, "is that you leave her alone."
"And if we don't?"
I straighten.
Then I do something deliberate.
I let him see it.
Not the full depth—never that—but enough to understand scale. The city outside the broken windows warps slightly, skyline bending inward like it's listening.
He pales.
"You'll start a war," he says.
I nod once.
"Yes."
He backs away.
Not running.
But retreating.
Good.
When he's gone, I release the pressure and the building exhales around me.
I press my hand to my face, dragging it down slowly.
This is unsustainable.
Distance won't protect her anymore.
Restraint won't be enough.
They're going to force her into the open.
Which means I have to choose how close I'm willing to stand when that happens.
I pull out my phone.
I don't send a warning.
I send a promise.
UNKNOWN: If anyone approaches you tonight, do not cooperate.
UNKNOWN: I'm already planning for what comes next.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Then:
Elara: Be careful.
The simplicity of it nearly breaks me.
I stare at the message longer than I should.
If she says my name...
I close my eyes.
Not yet.
Soon.
But not yet.
Because when she does—
I won't be able to pretend this is still under control.
The next day Elara stands behind the counter
They come in the morning.
Not with sirens.
Not with force.
With smiles.
Three of them, standing just outside my apartment door like they belong there. Clean uniforms. Polished boots. The kind of calm that feels practiced—rehearsed in front of mirrors.
"Miss Finch," the woman in the center says gently. "We're here to make sure you're safe."
My stomach tightens.
I knew this was coming.
He told me.
I don't step back, but I don't step aside either. "Safe from what?"
They exchange a glance. Quick. Efficient.
"From escalation," she says. "From attention you didn't ask for."
I think of a voice in the dark.
A presence that never felt like a threat.
"I didn't call you," I say.
The man on the right smiles wider. "We know. That's why we're concerned."
That's when I understand.
This isn't about danger.
It's about interest.
They don't give me time to pack.
They don't need to.
Everything is already arranged.
The ride is quiet. Windows tinted just enough that the city feels distant, like a backdrop instead of a place I belong. I watch familiar streets blur past, each one tugging at something inside my chest.
I wonder if he's watching too.
The facility—safehouse, they call it—isn't cold. That's the worst part.
Soft lighting. Neutral colors. Glass walls that don't look like barriers until you try to open them. A bracelet slipped onto my wrist with a murmured apology.
"Just a proximity monitor," the woman explains. "Standard procedure."
It hums faintly against my pulse.
I don't like that they know my pulse.
They show me the room.
It's beautiful in the way hotel rooms are—designed to make you forget you're not home. Bed perfectly made. City view framed by reinforced glass. A small table with a tablet already logged in under my name.
Rules scroll across the screen when I touch it.
Movement restrictions.
Communication monitoring.
Approved visitors only.
I swallow.
"This is temporary," the woman says, standing just a little too close. "Until things settle."
Her hand brushes my wrist as she gestures to the tablet.
I flinch.
She notices.
Her smile falters for half a second.
"I'm sorry," she says. "Did I startle you?"
I shake my head automatically.
But my skin still burns where she touched me—not because it was aggressive, but because it was empty.
Wrong.
He never touched me like that.
Hours pass.
Maybe more.
Time behaves strangely when you're being watched.
I sit on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the city outside. Somewhere out there, life continues—coffee shops opening, people laughing, trains running on schedule.
Somewhere out there—
He is.
The thought presses into me so hard I have to breathe through it.
I don't know why I trust him.
I only know that I do.
A man comes in later. Different hero. Younger. Confident in the way people are when they think they're right.
He leans against the wall across from me, arms crossed. Too casual.
"You understand why this is necessary," he says.
I look at him. "Do I?"
"You've been seen with him," he continues. "You're a variable now."
I don't like the word.
"I wasn't hurt," I say.
"Not yet."
He steps closer.
I don't move.
"We're trying to keep you alive," he says softly, lowering his voice as if that makes it kinder. "Men like him don't stop. They don't compromise."
His breath is near my ear.
Too near.
My heart stutters—not with fear, but with something sharp and defiant.
"You don't know him," I say.
He smiles, thin and knowing. "I know his type."
I think of gravity bending.
Of restraint that felt deliberate.
Of a warning whispered like a promise.
"You don't," I repeat.
He straightens, irritation flashing across his face before the mask slips back on.
"Get some rest," he says. "We'll talk again."
The door seals behind him with a soft hiss.
I'm alone.
The lights dim automatically.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of systems I don't understand.
This is safety, they say.
So why does it feel like I can't breathe?
I close my eyes.
And that's when the air changes.
Not dramatically.
Just—enough.
The hum shifts pitch. The pressure in the room feels different, like the space itself has leaned closer.
My breath catches.
"—I told you."
The voice is barely there.
A whisper shaped directly for me.
I sit up so fast the bracelet beeps once, sharp and startled.
"Don't," he murmurs.
The sound of him—Kael—is closer than it should be, closer than the rules allow. Not touching. Never touching.
But I feel him.
Behind me.
My skin prickles, awareness flooding every nerve.
"They're listening," I whisper.
"I know."
My heart is pounding so loud I'm sure the sensors can hear it.
"Are you—" I stop myself. "Are you real?"
A breath near my throat.
Too close.
Too real.
"I wouldn't do this if I wasn't," he says quietly.
I don't turn around.
If I do, I think I'll break.
"I didn't ask for this," I say. "Any of it."
"I know."
The bed dips slightly, just enough to tell me he's there, gravity obeying him even when he refuses to let it show.
"I warned you," he continues. "Not to frighten you. To prepare you."
My fingers curl into the sheets.
"They think you're the danger," I whisper.
A pause.
Then, softer—almost careful—
"I am."
I swallow.
"But not to you."
I breathe in, slow and shaky.
His presence wraps around me without touching, like standing inside a storm that's chosen not to strike.
"Say it," he murmurs.
My chest tightens.
"Say what?"
"My name."
I hesitate.
"They know you as Blackfall," I say.
A faint sound—almost a laugh, but darker.
"That's what they call me," he says. "Not who I am."
I turn my head just enough that his breath brushes my ear.
My pulse spikes.
"Kael," I whisper.
The room reacts.
Not violently—but recognizably.
Pressure shifts. Lights flicker once.
He exhales.
And in that breath is something dangerous and intimate and irrevocable.
"Good," he says. "Now they can never take that from you."
The presence pulls back—not gone, just distant enough that I can breathe again.
"Rest," he says. "This won't last."
"What won't?" I ask.
"The illusion," he replies. "That they're the ones in control."
The air settles.
The hum returns to normal.
I'm alone again.
But my heart is still racing.
And for the first time since they brought me here—
I don't feel trapped.
I feel chosen.