HERMIONE
The city lights blur past the car windows as we head back to the penthouse. Dylan hasn't said much since we left my grandparents' house. His jaw is tight, fingers gripping the steering wheel with that same intensity he used when he held me earlier.
He's thinking about Niah. About how a name from a file might connect to a threat scrawled in venom on my phone screen.
And so am I.
Inside the penthouse, the security detail is already stationed. Two men I don't recognize nod from the elevator bay, eyes sharp beneath tailored suits. Another one is near the kitchen, pretending not to listen as we enter.
"I hate this," I whisper as I toe off my heels.
"You're not alone," Dylan replies. "But this is necessary."
He hands me a glass of water, his thumb brushing my hand as he passes it. "And you're staying here. No arguments."
I try to glare. It barely lands. "I didn't argue."
"You wanted to."
"Well, yes. I'm not a porcelain doll, Dylan."
"No," he says softly, stepping closer, "you're a hurricane in heels and I love that about you. But even hurricanes need shelter when the sky breaks open."
I exhale, tension folding out of my shoulders. "I just don't want to live in fear."
He steps forward and wraps his arms around me, pressing a kiss to my hairline. "You won't. I'll handle the fear. You just live."
We stay like that for a while — quiet, breathing together. Eventually, I pull back, just enough to see his eyes.
"You're thinking about the file again."
"I am."
"You believe it's her — Niah."
"I believe someone thinks you stole the life they were supposed to have," he says. "The threat made that clear."
I glance toward my purse, where my phone rests — the message still unread since earlier. I haven't had the strength to look again. But it plays in my mind like a siren.
You walk around like you deserve it. The job. The man. The life.
You weren't even meant to be born.
You stole everything.
I'm going to take it all back.
My stomach twists.
"What if she's right?" I whisper.
Dylan's voice is ice and fire all at once. "Don't. Don't you ever say that. You didn't steal anything. You survived. You were chosen. That life is yours because your mother fought for you. Died for you. No one gets to rewrite that truth."
I nod, but it's the kind of nod you do when your heart's too full to speak.
Dylan kisses my forehead, then moves to cup my face. "I need something from you."
"Anything."
"I want us to go back to your grandparents' house in two days. I want to ask them more questions… there are things I need to clarify. The girl, the timelines, who might have known your mother at the time. Only they can fill in those blanks."
I blink. "You think it goes back that far?"
"I think obsession like this doesn't come out of nowhere. And the past always leaves fingerprints."
I nod. "Okay. We'll go."
A small smile lifts one corner of his mouth, like he didn't expect me to agree so easily.
Then something shifts between us — something softer, warmer.
His arms tighten around my waist, drawing me in until my knees bump the edge of the couch. I let him guide me down, settling into his lap like I've done it a thousand times.
"You feel safe?" he murmurs.
"In your arms? Always."
He kisses me slowly — like he's sealing that promise with his mouth.
My fingers thread through his hair as he deepens the kiss, one hand splaying warm against my lower back. When he finally pulls away, his voice is low and rough.
"I'll find her, Hermione. And I'll stop her. But until then… stay close. Let me protect what's mine."
And in the silence that follows, I lean in and whisper:
"I already am yours."