Chapter 34
Thirty Four
Cassian
The roar dies in my throat, leaving a raw, aching silence. I am on my knees in the center of the loft, the concrete cold and unforgiving against my bruised body. The space is a vacuum, all the air sucked out of it with her absence.
Gone.
The word is a brand on my mind. For a long moment I am paralyzed by the sheer, catastrophic magnitude of my failure. The physical pain from the fight, the agony in my broken hand, the fire in my split lip—it all fades to a distant hum. This is the real pain. The gaping, hollow wound of her absence.
Then the paralysis shatters, replaced by a cold, crystalline rage. It’s a rage directed not at her, but at myself. At my weakness. My monumental, idiotic loss of control. I let her see me break. I let my grief make me stupid, and then I walked out and left the cage door open.
I push myself to my feet, ignoring the chorus of protests from my battered body. Panic is a luxury. Despair is a dead end. What is left is purpose.
I stride to my desk, my movements stiff but steady.
I sit down and wake the sleek, black workstation.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, the motion familiar and precise.
I pull up the building's security network, my access absolute.
A few clicks, and a dozen camera feeds tile my screen.
The lobby, the elevators, the garage, the hallways.
I rewind the footage, my eyes scanning, my jaw tight.
There. The main hallway, an hour ago. The door to my loft opens a crack.
A sliver of her face, pale and terrified, peeks out.
I watch, my breath held as she slips into the hall, a ghost in bare feet.
She is so small, so fragile against the harsh concrete and steel of the building.
A part of me, the part that wanted to protect her, screams in protest. But another part, a darker, more primal part feels a flicker of something else.
A grudging, possessive admiration. She is a survivor.
I watch her take the stairs. I fast-forward, tracking her descent. I see her emerge into the ground-floor service corridor and slip out a side door into the alley. Then, nothing. She’s swallowed by the city.
Where would she go?
The answer is immediate and obvious; she would go home.
I grab my keys, my movements sharp, efficient.
The pain is just information now, a signal from a damaged machine.
I ignore it. I take the elevator down to the garage, the descent a mirror of her own escape.
The Challenger starts with an angry roar, the sound a perfect match for the fury churning in my gut.
I tear through the city streets, the laws of traffic a suggestion I have no time for. The drive is short. I pull up across from her apartment building, its shabby brick facade a stark contrast to my own sterile world. I kill the engine and just watch for a moment. This is her territory. Her past.
I get out and cross the street. The front door is unlocked. I take the stairs two at a time, my long legs eating up the distance. I arrive at her floor, the air smelling of old carpet and fried onions. Apartment 3B.
The lock is cheap. A credit card and ten seconds of pressure is all it takes. The door clicks open.
I step inside, and for the first time, I am invading her world.
Not the cage I built for her, but the nest she made for herself.
It’s small, cluttered, and so profoundly, achingly her.
A half-dead plant sits by the window. Books are stacked on every surface.
A yellow mug with a chipped rim sits on the counter.
I pick it up, my thumb tracing the edge.
It feels more real, more intimate than anything in my loft.
This was her life. The life I took from her.
I am not here for sentiment, I am here for intelligence.
I move through the small apartment with methodical precision.
I am not looking for her; I know she is not here.
I am looking for what she took. In the bedroom, I see the closet door is slightly ajar.
A shoebox sits on the floor beneath the shelf, its lid askew.
It’s empty. She took her emergency money.
She’s not just running. She’s planning, she’s equipping herself.
The realization doesn't bring fear. It brings a strange, sharp clarity. I underestimated her. I saw her as a broken thing I needed to protect, a symbol of my grief for Leo. I was wrong. She is not a symbol. She is a fire, and I was the one who lit the match.
I pull out my phone, my bruised fingers protesting as I dial. It rings twice.
“Yeah?” The voice is rough. It’s my lead foreman, a man who knows how to get things done without asking questions.
“I need eyes,” I say, my voice low and cold. “I’m sending you a photo. A woman. Her name is Aria. I want every crew, every site, from the docks to the high-rises. I want every man looking. There’s a ten-thousand-dollar bonus for the first credible sighting. Another twenty for whoever finds her.”
There’s a pause. “She dangerous?”
I look around the small, dusty apartment, at the ghost of the life she lived.
“Yes,” I say, the word tasting like truth and irony. “To me.”
I hang up. I walk out of her apartment, leaving the door unlocked behind me. Let her think she has a sanctuary. Let her think she has a head start.
This is my city. My crews are its eyes and ears. She can run, but every street corner, every alley, every rooftop belongs to me.
I will turn over every stone in this city. She is mine, and I am going to collect.