Chapter 25 Elara
Elara
The safehouse wasn’t really safe. It smelled of bleach and dust, like a temporary hideout you never unpack in.
The curtains were drawn tight, with light piercing through the gaps in thin blades.
Beckett patrolled the perimeter as if he’d been born holding a rifle instead of a heartbeat, checking windows, sight-lines, and locks.
I sat on the edge of the narrow bed, palms flat on my thighs, counting my breaths.
Hydra’s training whispered through me—how to wait, how to listen, how to be invisible even in plain sight. But tonight, invisibility felt like drowning.
“You’re pacing,” I finally said. His head snapped toward me.
“I’m securing.”
“Same thing.” My voice came out softer than I intended.
He crossed the room, boots soundless on old linoleum. He stopped just close enough that the air between us shifted. “You need food? Water?”
“I need you to stop looking at me like I’m a live grenade,” I murmured.
Something flickered in his eyes. “You are.”
. “Hydra’s going to try to pull you back. Every instinct you’ve got will scream to answer. When it happens, you have to choose—right then—who you are.”
My throat tightened. “And if I choose wrong?”
His jaw clenched. “I won’t let you choose wrong,” he whiapered.
The silence between us vibrated. It should have been cold. It wasn’t.
“You won’t,” I whispered.
His fingers brushed the edge of the bandage at my collar, stopping just short of my skin. “Don’t make me prove you wrong.”
I should have flinched. Instead, I held still. “Hydra taught me to be a weapon,” I said, voice breaking on the last word. “But they never taught me how to stop.”
His hand hovered there a heartbeat longer, then dropped. “Then let me teach you. Remember yourself before Hydra.””
For one reckless moment, I let myself believe him. The desert, the safehouse, Hydra—they all blurred. It was just his shadow over mine, and the terrifying possibility that safety wasn’t a cage at all.