Page 121 of The Cost of Silence

“I will be,” I say honestly. “Right now, I’m in that fun place between terrified and furious.”

“That’s my favorite of your moods,” he says.

I snort. “You’re sick.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

Heat rushes to my face. “You’re biased.”

“I am,” he agrees.

His fingers trail down my jaw, along the line of my neck, resting over my pulse. It’s embarrassingly fast.

“You wrote?” he asks, glancing toward the notebook on the bed.

“Yes. Timeline. Patterns. Pet theories. A few insults.”

“For me or them?”

“Both,” I admit.

He smiles, small, real. “Good. We’ll go over it after dinner.”

“Are we eating dinner?” I ask. “Or just consuming vengeance and caffeine?”

“We’re eating,” he says firmly. “I’m not planning revenge on an empty stomach.”

Something about the way he says “revenge” sends a chill down my spine and a warmth through my chest at the same time.

Because here’s the truth I didn’t expect when I first wrote that damn article: I’m not afraid of Nico’s darkness anymore.

I’m afraid of what the world looks likewithoutit on my side.

He leans down, lips brushing mine. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For what?” I whisper against his mouth.

“For not running. For not falling apart. For turning a dead rat into data instead of trauma.”

“That’s… both creepy and romantic,” I say.

“It’s us,” he replies.

Then he kisses me properly and for a little while the rat, the alarms, Orlov, whoever the hell is pulling these strings, fade to black.

It’s just me and him, and the steady, stubborn knowledge that I’m not going anywhere.

They walked into my life again today.

They bled on my table.

They tried to make me into a warning.

They forgot something important:

I don’t just write stories.

I finish them.