Kristina's fork hovered above her plate, the tines catching and releasing the warm light from the restaurant's overhead fixtures. She wasn't really seeing the food, her eyes kept straying to the wide window beside them, where the night spilled its darkness into the reflections, turning the glass into a shifting mirror of city lights and ghostly faces. Conversations murmured at the edges of her hearing, blending with the low clink of cutlery and the occasional lift of laughter from nearby tables. It was all distant, muffled by the heavier current of thought swirling in her mind.
Across from her, James sat in his suit, angled slightly toward the room, his focus fixed on the entrance rather than on his meal. His posture was deceptively relaxed, the sort of casual elegance anyone else might mistake for comfort, but Kristina had learned to read him. She saw the subtle markers: the way his eyes moved without ever seeming hurried, the controlled stillness of his left hand resting on the table, while the right stayed close to his side as though it belonged there, waiting. Since the meeting earlier, he had been sharper, his presence wound tighter, and though he'd offered no explanation, she could feel the difference like a change in the air.
A shadow drifted across the glass and she caught a glimpse of her own reflection, a faint crease between her brows, the stiffness in her shoulders, lips pressed in a line. She set her fork down, not wanting the tremor in her fingers to betray her.
"Kristina."
His voice pulled her attention like a cord. Quiet, but weighted. She met his gaze, steady and unblinking. "Eat," he told her, not harsh, not gentle, but anchoring. A tether.
She lifted the fork again and pushed a morsel across her plate before tasting it. The richness of the dish landed flat on her tongue. Something in the air around them was taut, humming, like the moment before a storm's first drop breaks.
When the server approached to refill their glasses, James didn't take his eyes off her. His order for another round of wine was smooth and polite, at odds with the taut current beneath his calm exterior.
"You're watching for someone," she said quietly, leaning forward just enough to make it private.
He didn't deny it. "Just being careful."
No more than that, but his gaze cut toward the door again, and she followed it this time. Two men had entered — tall, broad, wearing tailored suits that sat too stiff on them to match the room's casual ease. One scanned the restaurant in a slow, deliberate sweep. The other's eyes found James, and the corner of his mouth pulled into something that was not a smile.
The hum of the city outside barely reached the dim interior. Low light pooled in amber around the table, making the air feel thicker, like each breath was meant to be savored or feared. Kristina shifted in her chair, her fingertips tracing the rim of a half-empty glass without drinking. The faint clink of her nail against the glass was the only sound between them.
James sat across from her, leaning back in the shadows, one arm stretched along the back of the booth. His gaze wasn't casual, it was measuring, assessing, as though every twitch of her hand and shift of her posture told him something important. The space between them wasn't far, but it felt like a stretch of dark water she wasn't sure she wanted to swim.
"Eat," he said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a wire snapping.
She glanced down at the plate in front of her. The food had gone lukewarm, the sheen of sauce drying at the edges, but her stomach was too knotted to care. She took a slow bite anyway, just to avoid the weight of his stare, chewing without tasting.
Outside, the wind rattled the awning, a low groan that made the glass in the door tremble. Inside, James shifted forward, his elbows on the table, his forearms solid in the dim light. "They'll make a move soon," he said quietly, as if stating the weather. "And when they do, I need you ready to move with me. No hesitation."
Kristina swallowed hard. The bite sat heavy in her throat. "You think it's about me?"
James' jaw ticked once before he answered. "I think you're leverage. Which makes you dangerous to keep and dangerous to leave."
Her fingers curled tighter around the fork. "Then why..."
"Because you're already mine," he cut in, the words landing heavy, not a boast but a verdict. "And I don't leave things I claim in the open for someone else to take."
Something in his tone made her skin prickle. Not fear, something hotter, tangled with confusion and an ache she didn't want to name. She looked down, forcing her focus back to the plate, but she could feel his eyes still on her, steady and unblinking.
The bell over the restaurant door jingled faintly. James didn't look away from her, but his hand slid toward the knife at the edge of his plate, fingers brushing the handle like a promise.
Kristina's pulse thudded in her ears. Whoever had stepped inside wasn't ordering food. She could tell by the shift in James' breathing, the slow tilt of his head.
"Don't turn around," he said, so low she almost thought she imagined it.
She froze, the fork paused halfway to her mouth.
Footsteps approached. Slow, deliberate. A shadow passed along the wall, stretching toward their booth.
James' other hand found hers under the table, gripping it tight, not for comfort, but to hold her in place.
The stranger stopped just short of their table. Kristina could feel the weight of his attention even without looking, like a beam of light she couldn't see but knew was aimed right at her.
"James." The voice was deep, carrying that certain kind of smoothness that made it more dangerous, not less.
James' fingers tightened on hers once, then let go. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned back in the booth and turned his head toward the voice. "You're a long way from where you're supposed to be," he said.
The man gave a short, humorless laugh. "Orders change."
Kristina's heart stumbled over itself. She kept her gaze fixed on the fork in her hand, her knuckles pale. The air between them seemed to thicken, each second stretching. She heard the faint creak of leather, someone shifting their stance, and the soft click of a ring tapping against the wood of their table.
"Elias doesn't appreciate his things walking off," the man said.
Kristina's stomach lurched. Her throat felt dry, but she forced herself to keep still.
"She's not his," James said, his voice sharp enough to cut.
"That's not how he sees it."
Kristina could hear the smile in the man's words, even though she didn't dare lift her head.
The scrape of the chair opposite her made her flinch. The man slid into the booth, his presence pressing in, the scent of sharp cologne laced with cigarette smoke reaching her nose.
"Pretty thing," he murmured, not to James, but to her.
Before she could react, James' hand moved, a blur, and his knife was buried in the table between them, the blade standing upright, quivering from the force.
The man's words cut off. Silence pooled heavy between the three of them.
James leaned forward, his forearms braced on the table, his eyes locked on the intruder. "You've got exactly five seconds to get out of my sight before I decide Elias needs a new messenger."
Kristina's breath caught in her chest.
The man's smirk faltered. His gaze shifted from James to her, lingering just long enough to make her skin crawl, before he slid out of the booth and walked toward the door.
The bell jingled again as it shut behind him.
James didn't move for a moment, watching the door like he expected it to open again. Then, without looking at her, he pulled the knife from the table, wiped the blade with a napkin, and set it down.
"You're coming with me," he said, his tone leaving no space for argument.
She nodded before she realized she was doing it.
James stood, tossing a few bills on the table, and held out his hand. She hesitated, just long enough to feel the decision, but then placed her fingers in his.
His grip was warm, steady, and unyielding.
They stepped out into the street together. The wind had picked up, carrying the smell of rain and something metallic, sharp against the back of her tongue. Somewhere, thunder rolled.
And Kristina knew whatever storm was coming, she was already in its center.
James didn't slow down once they stepped outside. His hand stayed locked with hers, guiding her through the narrow crowd that had gathered under the awning to wait out the drizzle. It wasn't a run, but his stride had purpose, controlled urgency, the kind that told her he was thinking three steps ahead.
She tried to match his pace without stumbling. Her mind, however, was still back in that booth. The look in that man's eyes. The way James' voice had gone sharp, dangerous. The sound of the knife hitting the table, still ringing in her ears.
They crossed the street, weaving between the glow of streetlamps and the passing shadows of strangers. James' jaw was set hard. The rain slicked his hair against his forehead, beading on his lashes, but he didn't seem to notice.
"Who was he?" Kristina asked finally, her voice low.
"One of Elias's," James said without looking at her. "Not the first. Won't be the last."
The words should have chilled her. They did, in a way. But there was something steadier beneath the fear now, a certainty that James would stand between her and whatever was coming.
They turned down a side street. The noise of the main road faded, replaced by the soft hiss of rain on concrete and the occasional hum of a streetlight. James stopped in front of a nondescript black sedan, opened the passenger door, and nodded for her to get in.
She hesitated. Not because she doubted him, but because she knew this was another line, another step deeper into whatever world he'd been keeping from her.
Still, she slid into the seat.
The door shut with a final, muffled thud.
James rounded the hood, climbed in behind the wheel, and started the engine. The low rumble filled the small space, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Rain streaked across the windshield in fine, silver lines.
Finally, James said, "We're going somewhere safe. But you need to understand, safe doesn't mean out of reach. Not anymore."
Kristina swallowed hard. "And if I don't want to be part of this?"
He glanced at her then, his eyes catching the dim light from the dashboard. "You already are."
The truth of it landed heavy in her chest. She leaned back in her seat, exhaling slowly as the car pulled away from the curb.
Outside, the city blurred past, neon signs bleeding into the wet pavement, silhouettes hurrying under umbrellas, the occasional flash of a tail light. Kristina's fingers tightened on her knees. Somewhere in the dark, that man, the messenger, would be reporting back. Telling Elias where she was, who she was with.
James reached over without looking and set his hand on hers, the gesture grounding her. "They won't touch you," he said. "Not while I'm breathing."
It wasn't a promise she thought he'd ever break.
But the unspoken part was there, buried in the rain and the road ahead: What happens if he stops breathing?