The elevator doors slid shut with a soft mechanical sigh.
The moment they sealed, something in me… loosened. Not enough to collapse—just enough for instinct to stop holding the line by its teeth. I drew a slow inhale, measured and deliberate, and dropped the cigarette to the floor.
My heel pressed over it. Grind. Snuff. Silence.
The smoke had helped mask the tightness clawing up my chest, but it couldn't hide the truth: every breath dragged fire along my ribs, scraping deeper with each movement. The taste of blood already sat thick and metallic at the back of my tongue.
I slipped my blazer back on. The fabric clung differently where blood had dried across the sleeve, but I kept my motions exact. Smooth. Controlled.
Don't show it.
Don't break.
The deep breath I'd taken shifted something inside me—a warning twist sharp enough to trigger the cough I'd been crushing down since taking out Kovi's guard. I swallowed it, throat locking around the reflex.
Not now.
Not in front of him.
He already looked angry. Probably because I walked out before he did.
"I apologize," I began quietly, "for—"
A static prickle ran across my temples—my Evol brushing against circuitry the way a fingertip finds a hidden pulse. Something in the walls. In the ceiling. Too many somethings.
My gaze lifted slowly.
Micro-nodes embedded in the corners.
Multiple cameras.
Two high-sensitivity mics.
A transmitter.
A receiver.
My brow tightened before I could stop it. I looked at Sylus.
He gave me the faintest nod.
Yes. Someone was listening.
The apology died instantly.
And the tension I'd mistaken for anger cooled into something else entirely—calculation, coiled low beneath the surface. Whatever mood sat under his stillness wasn't mine to read. Not here. Not under surveillance.
So I straightened.
Lifted my chin.
Forced my breathing into the shallowest rhythm my ribs would tolerate.
Everything later.
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened into the lobby's warm marble glow.
My spine reset. My shoulders aligned. Whatever had loosened inside me snapped cleanly back into place.
Role. Posture. Mask.
Automatic.
I stepped out in perfect sync with Sylus, our strides matched as though nothing had gone wrong, nothing had been noticed, nothing was bleeding inside me.
His hand lifted—unhurried, precise—and settled at the small of my back again.
Not pushing. Not guiding. Positioning.
A silent message for any watcher:
She walks with me. Not behind. Not apart. On my axis.
It didn't feel like comfort.
It felt like strategy.
I didn't react. Couldn't. Every ounce of focus was going into keeping my breath even, keeping the cough locked down like a trapped animal.
We crossed the lobby as a single unit, footsteps soft on polished stone.
The cameras followed us. Sylus didn't acknowledge them.
His hand stayed at my back, steady, unchanging, carrying me through the glass doors—
and into the night.
Cool. Sharp. Real.
We walked toward the Aston Martin in perfect sync. The empty valet road echoed faintly beneath our steps. The city hummed somewhere beyond us, but none of it touched the space between us.
Sylus reached the car first.
He opened my door without a word.
No theatrics.
No softness.
Just continuation of the role—clean, controlled, intentional, as though even his silence belonged to the choreography.
I lowered myself into the seat—slow, careful. Pain flared up my side, bright and vicious. I kept my face still.
The door shut with a soft click that felt loud in the quiet.
Sylus circled the car and slid into the driver's seat.
His expression hadn't changed.
Not relaxed. Not tense. Just—contained.
Impossibly so.
And I had no idea what that meant.
The seatbelt crossed my ribs like a blade. I kept my breathing shallow, controlled. When Sylus closed his door, sealing us into the hush of the Aston Martin, he still didn't look at me.
Good, I told myself.
Fine.
Better.
But when I glanced at him—barely, just enough to confirm—his profile was sharp as carved obsidian. Every line of him contained, forward-focused. Not a single stray breath.
Still mad.
He shifted a fraction in his seat—small enough most people wouldn't notice. His hand tightened once on the wheel before easing back into perfect alignment. His other hand rested too loosely on the door panel. A controlled looseness. Forced.
The car moved.
City lights bled across the windshield; the reflections painted Sylus's cheek, jaw, the bridge of his nose in shifting gold.
He still didn't speak.
The silence wasn't like before.
Before, silence was neutral. Tactical.
This one felt dense. Alive.
Pressed tight as a held breath.
I stared ahead, blinking slow, timing my inhales to avoid the cough clawing its way up my throat.
Not here.
Not now.
Not when he already—
I cut off the thought.
Outside, traffic hummed in distant waves. Streetlamps slid past in even intervals. Inside, every sound felt amplified:
The low hum of the engine.
My pulse in my ears.
The faint shift of Sylus's breath—deeper than earlier. Like someone holding something still inside themselves.
He didn't look at me, but in the passenger window reflection I caught it—
a glance.
Quick.
Not toward me, but… near me.
Checking a mirror, I told myself.
Still mad.
I kept my posture perfect. Knees aligned. Hands loosely folded in my lap. My ribs felt like they were grinding glass, but I didn't let it touch my face.
Not until we get back.
Not until I'm out of his sight.
Sylus took a corner slightly faster than necessary. Not enough to jolt the car—just enough for the shift to stab my ribs. I swallowed the shock of pain.
He exhaled once—quiet, controlled. A colder man would call it nothing, but something in it felt… measured. Like he was counting something only he knew.
Still mad.
A red light caught us.
The car rolled to a smooth stop.
The low engine rumble vibrated into my bones.
Sylus's fingers tapped the steering wheel once—nearly soundless.
Not impatience.
Not nerves.
Something between focus and restraint.
Then his hand stilled.
He didn't look at me.
He didn't speak.
So I didn't either.
Silence carried us the rest of the way.
But it wasn't empty.
It was a held breath waiting to be exhaled.
Only I didn't know whose.
The city passed in long strokes of neon and shadow. When Sylus finally turned off the main road and descended into the mansion's underground garage, the asphalt swallowed the light and sound behind us. The walls tightened around the car, the engine reverberating low against concrete.
The garage door closed as soon as we cleared the threshold—sharp mechanical whir, then a heavy final click. No cameras here. No watchers. Just air too still, too clean, too private.
Sylus parked with the same precision he did everything, the engine purring into silence as though even the car didn't dare intrude.
For one suspended breath, neither of us moved.
Then I stepped out, careful not to let the motion hitch my breath. Pain curled up the side of my chest like a tightening hand, but I kept my face smooth, neutral, unremarkable.
Sylus followed a moment later, smooth and sharp as a blade being sheathed. The door shut behind him with a muted thud.
I walked—steady, even, the sound of each step measured. Sylus fell into stride beside me, not matching me the way he had earlier, not leading either. Just walking.
We reached the inner access door.
I reached for it first.
My fingers touched the handle—
—and for the first time, Sylus's gaze flicked toward me. A microsecond. Barely a shift. But sharp enough to register like a blade pressed flat against skin.
I opened the door and held it for him.
Warm hallway light spilled over us, washing away the harsh edges of the garage.
He walked past me.
The door hissed shut behind us.
The house swallowed our footsteps.
At the junction—his corridor right, mine left—we slowed at the same time without planning it. An invisible threshold. A moment suspended.
I didn't look at him.
Didn't breathe too deeply.
Didn't risk a sound.
Just kept walking.
His steps faded behind me.
Only then did the pain in my ribs lurch back up my throat, fierce and uncontained.
But I still didn't cough.
—
My door shut behind me with a soft click.
I made it three steps inside before the breath I'd been holding splintered apart. The cough ripped up my throat so violently I almost dropped to my knees.
I clamped a hand over my mouth—too late.
A hot, metallic taste flooded my tongue.
No. No no—
I tore the blazer off, letting it fall where it wanted, and stumbled to the bathroom. The second the light flared on, I braced myself over the sink and coughed hard—
Blood splattered against porcelain in a sharp red fan.
My arms shook from the effort. I stayed there, hunched, breathing shallow, waiting for the next wave. The cold porcelain helped, grounding me. My ribs felt like they were trying to peel apart with every inhale.
I spat the rest out, watched the red swirl toward the drain.
I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles went white.
Zayne's voice echoed faintly in my memory:
"If you start coughing blood, even a little, you contact me immediately."
I exhaled through my teeth.
Damn it.
I hated bothering people.
Hated sounding weak.
Hated admitting anything was wrong.
And it wasn't like I was dying.
Probably.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand — more blood. And before I could talk myself out of it, another coughing fit seized me, sharp and punishing. More red hit the sink.
Okay.
Fine.
I pushed away from the counter, retrieved my phone with shaking fingers, and sat on the closed toilet lid, trying to slow my pulse enough to type without trembling.
I opened Zayne's contact.
Diana: Good evening, Dr. Zayne. Sorry to bother you at this hour. I've been coughing a little bit of blood and wanted to make sure if I should be concerned.
I stared at the message. Too formal. Too calm. Too much like everything was fine.
Good.
I hit send.
The reply came in less than ten seconds.
Zayne: Please start a video call.
I exhaled once—careful—and tapped the video button.
His face appeared, lit by what looked like a desk lamp. Hair slightly rumpled, expression composed but sharpening the moment he took me in.
"Good evening, Ms. Vale."
"Hi doc, sorry to bother you."
"Show me your face clearly, please."
I adjusted the camera. His eyes scanned quickly. His voice stayed exact.
"How much blood have you coughed?"
"A little," I said.
A pause.
"Define 'a little.'"
I hesitated and angled the phone toward the sink. The streaks hadn't fully washed away.
His tone remained calm, but it thinned. "I see."
He re-centered his attention on me. "What triggered the episode?"
"I was out," I said carefully. "Someone attacked me. I had to defend myself."
Zayne didn't react outwardly, but his gaze sharpened — not curious about the context, just the biomechanics.
"And the force of the engagement?"
"…significant."
"Did you take any blows to the torso?"
"No," I said. "But I moved… aggressively."
He nodded once — clipped, assessing. "Your ribs were already compromised. Excessive torsion or force could worsen the internal bleed."
"Show me your breathing," he instructed.
I sat straighter and let him watch the rise and fall of my upper body. Even shallow breaths made something inside me scrape.
Zayne's brow tightened almost imperceptibly.
"How many episodes of coughing blood?"
I considered lying.
"…Three."
A soft exhale left him.
"That is enough to be concerning."
"I'm managing," I said.
His tone flattened into something even more professional. "Diana, managing is not the same as being stable. You require an in-person evaluation."
A movement at the door of the bathroom caught my eye. Sylus was there watching me.
My stomach tightened. "That's… not possible. I'm traveling for work," I said. "I won't be home for a couple of days."
Zayne went still, assessing the variables behind my words rather than the words themselves.
"I thought I put you on medical leave."
Shit, I slipped, "from the Association, yes, but I wasn't able to take leave from my second job."
"I see," he said. "Then we adjust."
He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering.
"Listen carefully. If the bleeding worsens, you need immediate medical attention. Do not wait. Do not try to push through it."
I nodded once.
"Until we know more, you must avoid strain, twisting, elevated heart rate, deep breaths, and any further impact to the torso."
Too late for most of that.
He studied my face, expression unreadable. "Do you have access to any medical equipment where you are? Imaging? Stabilizers?"
I looked up at Sylus, he nodded.
"Yes."
Zayne's tone shifted — decisive, clinical.
"Good. Then tomorrow I want a scan. Full thoracic imaging: ribs, lung field, pleural space. If the facility can run a FAST or focused ultrasound, do that as well. If not, send me whatever films or renders you can acquire."
My pulse stumbled.
He continued, uncompromising:
"I need to know whether the bleed is contained or worsening. Do not delay. And do not underestimate the risk."
I swallowed. "Understood."
A beat.
"If you experience dizziness, shortness of breath, increased pain, or if the blood becomes more than streaks, you contact me immediately — I don't care about the hour."
I nodded.
"And Diana," he added, tone even.
"Yes?"
"Do not allow another altercation. Your health will not tolerate it."
A humorless flicker of a smile almost rose. "I'll try."
"Try," he repeated, "is insufficient."
For a moment, he looked like he wanted to ask where I was, who I was with, what kind of "work trip" involved violent physical altercations four days post-injury.
But he didn't.
Professional boundaries.
Smart man.
"I will check on you again in the morning," he said.
The call ended.
I set the phone down beside the sink and stared at the red streaks again, the metallic taste still clinging to my tongue.
Sylus didn't say anything at first.
He just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable in that way only men who have mastered all their impulses can manage.
My phone screen went dark.
His eyes stayed on me—my face first, then the sink. The red streaks had already thinned under the water, but not enough to deny them. Not enough to pretend.
He didn't ask what happened.
He didn't need to.
"Get your coat," he said.
Quiet. Absolute.
I blinked. "I—"
"Now."
It wasn't anger. It wasn't urgency.
It was decision, already in motion.
I slid into my red coat—the heavier one, the warmer one—my ribs protesting every movement. Sylus took out his phone. One call. Two seconds. No explanation.
"Prepare my entrance," he said.
Then he hung up.
No clarifications. No instructions.
Whoever answered didn't require them.
He stepped aside so I could pass, silent as a drawn line. He didn't walk behind me or ahead of me—just beside, close enough that I could feel the quiet pressure of his presence without ever touching him.
I couldn't read him.
I tried.
Stone. That was the only word for the way his face held itself—sharp, controlled, expressionless. But the silence was different from earlier. Denser. Focused. Coiled.
Like something in him was holding position with both hands.
He opened the garage door for me.
Automatic.
Functional.
The Aston Martin waited, low and gleaming under the cold white lights.
He unlocked it.
Looked at me once—just once—an assessing flick of his gaze that caught too much in too little time.
"Don't take a deep breath," he said.
Not gentle.
Not harsh.
Not anything but instruction.
I nodded and slipped into the passenger seat, careful not to break the shallow rhythm I'd forced on my breathing.
Pain bloomed hot beneath my ribs.
Sylus shut the door behind me.