Taryn – POV
She didn't expect peace to feel this strange.
Taryn stood barefoot in Zane's kitchen, her fingers curled around a steaming mug of tea she hadn't meant to make. It was quiet, no footsteps outside the apartment, no coded messages from Harris about new vehicles, no strange shadows in the alley across the street.
Just the soft hum of the refrigerator, the whisper of the HVAC system, and the faint sound of water in the pipes as Zane showered upstairs.
For the first time in days, she wasn't looking over her shoulder. And for the first time in years, she didn't feel alone.
She walked slowly to the window. Outside, the skyline glittered in post-rain glow, everything sleek and soft. The city always looked like this right before sunrise. It had a weary honesty to it. Like it had stopped pretending to be dangerous or beautiful and was just itself.
Taryn sipped her tea and let the silence hold her. Maybe Charles really was gone. Or maybe he was just waiting. She would place her bets on the latter.
But that didn't matter right now. Not this second, right now, she was here.
And so was Zane. He found her by the window fifteen minutes later, barefoot and lost in thought.
"You okay?" he asked, towel slung over his shoulder, hair still wet.
She looked over, surprised to find a smile pulling at her lips. "You always ask me that."
"Because you never answer."
She shrugged. "Maybe I like keeping you guessing."
"I hate guessing."
"I know." She sipped her tea. "That's why I do it."
Zane crossed the room and leaned on the edge of the window frame, facing her. The towel dropped onto the counter beside him. He wore a black t-shirt and a pair of soft joggers, which felt wildly human for a man who normally looked carved out of Armani.
"Do you ever get tired of being in control?" she asked suddenly.
He tilted his head. "You think I'm in control?"
"You carry it like armor."
"Armor's only useful when someone's trying to stab you."
She glanced at him, not smiling now. "Someone always is."
Zane didn't argue with that. She admired that about him. He didn't waste time with pretty lies.
Later that day, they drove to the coast.
Zane didn't tell her the plan. He just said, "You need air," and handed her a hoodie.
She didn't argue. He was right.
The ocean was gray-blue and wild, and the sky a patchwork of clouds and bright blue sky. They walked along a private stretch of sand, one of those places only billionaires or old rockstars could afford. No noise. No cameras. Just wind and salt and silence.
Taryn took off her shoes and let the cold water bite her toes. Zane stayed a step behind her the whole time, not hovering but present.
"You know," she said, "I used to come out to the beach as a kid. Before everything went to hell."
"What happened?"
She picked up a smooth stone and turned it in her palm. "Foster homes. Couch surfing. Club work. I got good at surviving. That's all you really need, you know? To be just good enough not to die."
Zane didn't say anything, probably afraid she would stop talking.
"But lately… I don't know. I've been thinking about who I was before all that. Who I could've been, if my mother had stayed. Who I should have been if I had been stronger, older, and wiser."
She looked back at him. "Do you ever think about that?"
Zane nodded. "All the time."
They walked in silence for a while.
Then she asked, "Who would you be if you weren't… this?"
Zane smiled faintly. "Probably a carpenter."
She chuckled. "You? With a hammer?"
"Don't laugh. I like building things. Quiet things. Things that stay where you put them."
"That's weirdly poetic." She smiled, and it made her heart skip when he smiled back. She wanted to touch him, to run her fingers through his tousled light brown hair.
He looked at her, something more than just amusement in his eyes. "You asked."
She nodded. "Fair." Taryn's smile faded a little. "And if I hadn't met you do you think you'd be okay?"
Zane didn't answer right away.
"I don't know," he said finally. "But I think I'm better with you here."
The words weren't romantic. They were steady. Quiet. But they landed like an earthquake.
That night, back at the penthouse, Taryn found herself curled against him on the couch, her head on his chest, his hand resting lightly on her thigh. They weren't talking. They didn't have to.
And that was the strangest part of all.
She didn't feel like a guest anymore.
She didn't feel like prey. She felt like she was home.
For the first time in a long time, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, the devil she'd been dancing with wasn't here to burn her down.
Maybe he was here to help her rise from the ashes.
That night she dreamed of the trailer again. Of the thin walls and the smell of burnt coffee. Of her mother's voice slurred and angry behind a closed door, and the flicker of television light reflecting off broken blinds.
In the dream, it was always summer. Always hot. The air thick with sweat and dust and lies. She was thirteen.
She hadn't learned how to lie convincingly yet, but she'd already become an expert at hiding. Under the porch. Behind the washing machine. In plain sight, with her mouth closed and her eyes lowered.
Her mother's boyfriend had heavy boots and heavier hands. His voice was syrupy and slow, right up until it snapped.
Taryn knew how to stay still. That's what saved her. But not always, not every time.
She woke before sunrise, heart pounding. The air was cool, but her skin was clammy. She rolled over in Zane's bed and stared at the ceiling, willing the memories to evaporate.
They didn't, they never did.
Zane was still asleep, one arm thrown across the pillow, his chest rising and falling steadily. He looked peaceful in sleep, a far cry from the ruthless man the newspapers tried to turn him into. She envied that stillness.
She slipped out of bed, pulled on his hoodie, and padded into the living room barefoot.
The city hadn't woken yet. She liked it better that way. She was still curled on the couch when Zane appeared twenty minutes later with two mugs of coffee and a cautious look in his eyes.
"Bad dream?" he asked, offering her a cup.
She took it. Nodded. Didn't speak right away. He sat beside her, close but not pressing.
She let the silence stretch for another sip, then finally said, "I never told you about my mother."
Zane didn't speak. Just waited.
"She used to sing," Taryn said. "Had a beautiful voice. Full of smoke and gravel. She wanted to be a country star, but she ended up in a trailer in Oklahoma with a daughter she never asked for and a string of men who couldn't hold a job or their liquor."
Zane stayed quiet.
"One night when I was fourteen, she left. Took her guitar and her boots and disappeared. No note. No goodbye. Just gone. I waited three days before I told anyone. I kept hoping maybe she'd come back." She stared at the skyline, eyes burning. "She didn't."
Zane's voice was low. "Did they find her?"
"Eventually. In Arizona. OD'd in a motel bathroom. They mailed me a pair of her earrings. That's all I got."
Taryn swallowed. "Once they found out it was just me in the trailer, it was foster homes. Group homes. One after the other. I stopped unpacking my bag. There was no point. Every place had its own rules, its own version of safety." She gave a bitter smile. "Some were worse than the trailer."
Zane's hand moved, gently brushing hers. She didn't pull away.
"I aged out at eighteen. Went straight into dancing. It was easy money. Nobody asked questions. You pretend you're bulletproof, and if you're good at it, people believe you."
Zane looked at her. "You were good at it."
She met his eyes. "I had to be."
They sat in silence again, but this one felt warmer. She had exposed a part of herself most people never got close to. And he hadn't flinched.
Later that morning, he took her to his private office on the 39th floor of one of his towers. Not because she wanted to work. Because she wanted to see what he was like in his world.
He gave her a tour without showing off. Introduced her to no one. Just opened the door to the balcony, handed her a cup of tea, and said, "Sometimes it helps to stand above it all."
She laughed. "You really do live in metaphors, huh?"
He smirked. "Only the ones I build myself."
She leaned against the railing and let the wind tangle her hair.
"I never had anything like this," she said softly. "Not even close."
Zane stepped behind her. "Then maybe it's time you did."