Chapter 12 Elara
Elara
The silence stretched, thick as smoke. Beckett stood by the door like he was carved out of stone, arms folded, gaze sweeping the room as if Hydra might crawl out of the shadows at any second.
I should have been relieved he wasn’t looking at me. Instead, it made me restless. Because part of me wanted that sharp attention turned my way—even if it burned.
“You’re wasting your time,” I said finally, just to break the quiet. “Hydra’s not sending assassins through the air vents tonight. I’ll be safe in my room; you can go to yours. You said this safehouse was safer than anywhere else.”
His eyes cut to me, steady, unreadable. “Hydra doesn’t wait for night. And they don’t care about rules of engagement. If they want you, they’ll come. And I’ll be here when they do.”
It should have sounded like a threat. Somehow it didn’t.
I wrapped my arms around myself, hating how small the gesture felt. “You don’t believe me,” I said softly. “Not about Hydra. Not about what I knew… or didn’t know.”
“No,” he said, blunt as a bullet. Then after a beat, softer: “Not yet.”
The honesty scraped raw. I swallowed against it, against the way it hollowed something inside me. “Then why guard me at all?”
He pushed off the wall, steps measured, deliberate. He stopped just close enough that I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. His voice dropped low, gravel rough.
“Because whether you’re telling the truth or not, Hydra wants you silenced. And I won’t let them win. Not ever.”
The room shrank around us, the air too tight, too charged. I felt the heat of him, the quiet promise in his words. And for one reckless heartbeat, I let my mask slip.
“Do you have any idea,” I whispered, “what it’s like to spend years smiling for cameras, shaking hands, pretending you’re untouchable—only to find out you were standing on rot the whole time?”
His jaw tightened. His hand twitched like he almost reached for me, then stopped. “Yeah,” he said. Just one word. Heavy. Certain. Like maybe he understood more than I’d ever guessed.
My chest ached with something sharp, dangerous. “You said everybody breaks,” I murmured. “What happens if I already have?”
This time, he did reach. Just a brush of his fingers over my wrist, where Hydra’s scar lived like a brand. Not possessive. Not commanding. Just… present.
“Then you let someone hold the pieces,” he said.
The touch was gone as quickly as it came, but it left me shaking harder than any interrogation.
Because Beckett Cole might not trust me. But he saw me. And that was far more dangerous.