The rain came down harder that night, slapping the windows with fingers of water as if trying to get in.
Ava sat curled on the long leather couch, a blanket over her legs, staring at the faint reflection of herself in the glass. She wasn't cold, but her body hadn't stopped shivering since Eitan disappeared into the other room. He had received a call—low voice, curt words, followed by silence that had lasted over twenty minutes now.
She hadn't asked who was on the other end.
She hadn't dared.
This wasn't just a stranger's penthouse anymore. It wasn't just temporary safety. Somehow, the lines between her and him were beginning to blur. And she hated that she didn't know how to stop it.
A soft creak broke the quiet.
Eitan stepped back into the room, now dressed in a dark shirt and slacks. His hair was damp. Maybe from a shower. Maybe from the window he'd cracked open. Either way, there was a quiet rage in his expression, buried deep but unmistakable.
"You were right," he said.
Ava blinked. "About what?"
"The car," he said. "They weren't just watching. They were baiting me."
A pause.
He moved to the side table and poured himself a drink. Whiskey. Straight. Then he turned back to her and asked, "Are you afraid of me, Ava?"
The question hit her like a slap.
She opened her mouth, but the words stuck.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her as if she were something rare. Something fragile. But dangerous, too.
"I don't know what to think of you," she admitted quietly. "You... scare me. But not in the way you think."
He waited. Didn't push.
"You're cold," she continued, "but sometimes, it's like you feel too much. You hide it. But I can see it. It's in your eyes."
His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "I'm not the monster people think I am."
"Maybe not," Ava said, "but you're something else."
They stared at each other for a long moment. No music. No TV. Just the storm and the distance between them.
Finally, Eitan moved toward her. Not fast. Not threatening. But it made her heart beat faster anyway.
He sat beside her. Close enough to feel the heat from his body. Close enough that if she leaned just an inch, she'd be resting against him.
"I think they know you're with me," he said. "Or at least, suspect it."
"Then what happens now?"
"They'll come for you."
Her hands curled tighter under the blanket. "And you?"
"They've come for me before." He took a sip of his drink. "Didn't go well for them."
Ava tried to hold his gaze, but it was like staring into something bottomless. She dropped her eyes.
"Do you regret bringing me here?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"No."
She glanced up, surprised by the immediate answer.
"I don't regret anything I've done for you," he said. "And I won't start now."
The intensity in his tone made something twist in her stomach. She wasn't sure if it was warmth or warning.
Before she could respond, there was a sudden buzz.
The front panel. Someone was downstairs.
Eitan stood in one motion, his expression hardening again. He walked to the panel and pressed the speaker.
A male voice, muffled but firm, came through. "Delivery for Mr. Berger. Wine."
Eitan didn't speak. He watched the screen. Then, quietly, "I didn't order wine."
Ava's blood ran cold.
He pressed the intercom again. "Who sent it?"
Silence.
Then the delivery man repeated, "It's for Mr. Berger. Paid in full."
Eitan didn't respond. He ended the call and turned to Ava. "Stay here."
"Wait—"
"Stay," he said again, firmer. Then, almost gently, "Please."
She watched him disappear down the hall, hand already reaching inside his blazer.
Minutes passed.
Every sound—the wind, the thunder, the tick of the antique clock—seemed louder than it should.
Ava stood. Walked to the corner. Pressed herself against the wall, trying to see the screen.
It was blank now.
Suddenly, a loud thud echoed through the space.
Then nothing.
She held her breath.
More silence.
And then footsteps.
She didn't move until Eitan reappeared. He looked the same—but his sleeve had a streak of blood near the cuff.
"Eitan..."
He didn't say anything. He walked to the sink, washed his hands in silence, rolled up the sleeves, then turned to her.
"You're not leaving this apartment without me again."
She wanted to argue. But the look in his eyes said it wasn't up for debate.
"Who was it?" she asked.
"Someone testing the waters."
"Did you kill him?"
His silence was the answer.
And strangely, she didn't flinch.
She should've been horrified.
Instead, she nodded.
It was beginning. Whatever this thing between them was—it was crossing into a place she couldn't come back from.
But neither could he.