Chapter Seven Amethyst
The Raven left an hour ago. The folder is spread across the table. Photos. Floor plans. Intel reports. Everything I need to know about Enzo’s operation.
I start with the basics. Memorizing faces. Names. Positions in the hierarchy. Enzo runs things from a warehouse in the industrial district. Same location Giltrude used. He kept the infrastructure. The network. Just consolidated power.
I study his photo. Mid-forties. Sharp suit. Cold eyes. Giltrude’s former second-in-command. He always wanted her position. Now he has it. And he wants me back. The Raven’s intel is clear on that. They’ve been looking for me. Actively. My “return" will be welcomed.
At first, I flip through the other targets.
Three more faces. Three more names to memorize.
Three more people who need to die. I’m on my second pass through the files when I feel it.
His eyes. On me. I don’t look up. Just keep reading.
But I’m aware of him. Standing in the doorway.
Watching. He’s been there for ten minutes.
Maybe longer. Hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t moved.
Just stands there life if he looks away for even a second, I’ll disappear.
I turn a page. Study a floor plan. The warehouse has three levels. Two exits. One loading dock. I need to know every inch of it. Every escape route. Every blind spot.
His presence doesn’t waver. Doesn’t shift.
Just constant. Heavy. Like a weight pressing against my back.
I finish the floor plan. Move to the next document.
Communication protocols. Dead drops. Contact schedules.
He still hasn’t moved. I can feel the tension radiating off him.
Coiled. Tight. Like a caged animal. I close the folder.
Look up. He’s leaning against the door frame.
Arms crossed. Eyes locked on me. Dark. Intense.
“How long have you been standing there?" I ask.
“Does it matter?" His voice is controlled.
Too controlled. Like he’s holding something violent behind his teeth. Like it’s taking everything he has not to break.
“No," I say.
I turn back to the folder. Open it again. He doesn’t leave. Just keeps watching. And I let him. Because right now, that’s what he needs.
Two days later, I’m checking weapons. Two handguns. One knife. Small enough to conceal. Reliable enough to trust. I field-strip the first gun. Check the barrel. The firing pin. The magazine. Everything is clean. Functional. I reassemble it. Smooth. Practiced. Muscle memory.
Kade is pacing. Behind me. Back and forth across the cabin.
He’s been doing it for twenty minutes. Constant movement.
Restless. Agitated. I don’t comment. Just move to the second gun.
Strip it down. Check each piece. His pacing gets faster.
Tighter circles. Like he’s trying to wear a path into the floor.
I finish the second gun. Set it aside. Pick up the knife.
Test the edge. Sharp. Good. I slide it into the sheath.
Strap it to my thigh. His pacing stops. I feel him behind me.
Close. Too close. His breathing is uneven.
Ragged. “Amethyst." His voice is strained.
I turn. He’s right there. Inches away. His eyes are wild. Desperate. The predator is at the surface. Barely leashed.
“I can’t—" he starts. Stops. His hands flex. Curl into fists. Uncurl. “I can’t watch you walk into that," he says.
“You can," I say. “You will."
“What if—"
“No."
He stops. Jaw tightens.
“Amethyst—”
“No.” My voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t soften.
“No what-ifs," I say. “We’re not doing that."
The what-if’s.
The maybes.
The funeral before the body.
We’re not doing that.
His jaw clenches. He’s fighting something. Something big. Something that wants to break free. I reach up. Touch his face. His skin is hot. Feverish.
“You’re spiraling," I say.
“I know."
“You need to ground."
“I know."
His hand comes up. Covers mine. Presses it harder against his face. Like he’s trying to absorb the contact.
“I don’t know if I can do this." He says.
The words sound wrong coming from him. Too small. Too human. Like something has finally cracked.
“Yes, you can."
I step closer. Into his space. My other hand goes to his chest. Over his heart. It’s racing. Pounding.
“Breathe," I say.
He does. Deep. Shaky. His eyes close. I wait. Let him take what he needs. The contact. The proximity. The reassurance that I’m still here. Still real. Still his. His breathing evens out. Slowly. His grip on my hand loosens. Just a fraction.
“Better?" I ask. He opens his eyes. Looks at me. Really looks at me.
“No," he says. Honest. Raw. “But I’ll survive."
I nod. Step back. His hand falls away. Reluctant. Desperate. I turn back to the table. Pick up the communication device. Small. Encrypted. Untraceable.
“Check-in schedule," I say. My voice is steady. Professional. Back to business. “Every day. Eight PM. No exceptions."
He doesn’t respond. Just stands there. Watching me again.
Test the connection. It works. Good. I clip the device to my belt.
I move to the next item. Cover story. Rehearsing what I’ll say.
How I’ll explain my absence. Kade is still watching.
Silent. Hovering. Like if he looks away, I’ll vanish.
I let him. Because that’s all I can give him right now.
Day three, the final day. I leave tomorrow morning. I’m packed. One bag. Light. Practical. Everything I need. Nothing I don’t. The folder is memorized. Every face. Every name. Every detail.
I’m ready. Kade is not. He hasn’t slept.
Not last night. Probably not the night before.
His eyes are shadowed. Hollow. But sharp.
Too sharp. The predator is right there. At the surface.
Barely contained. He’s been following me all morning.
Room to room. Never more than a few feet away. Constant proximity. Like a shadow.
I’m in the bedroom. Doing a final check. Weapons. Documents. Communication device. He’s in the doorway. Watching. Always watching. I zip the bag. Set it by the door. Turn to face him. He looks wrecked. Desperate. Terrified.
“Tomorrow morning," I say.
He nods. Doesn’t speak. Can’t speak. I walk to him. Stop in front of him. Close enough to touch.
“I’ll check in," I say. “Every day. Eight PM. You’ll hear from me."
“And if I don’t?" His voice is barely a whisper. Broken.
“You will."
“But if I don’t—"
“Then you do what you promised," I say.
His eyes flash. Dark. Dangerous.
“You burn it down," I continue. “You come in. You destroy everything."
He swallows. Hard. “I don’t want to do that."
“I know."
“I don’t want to lose control."
“I know."
“I don’t want to lose you."
“You won’t." I reach up. Cup his face. Both hands. Force him to look at me. Really look at me.
“I’m coming back," I say. Firm. Certain. Absolute. “I’m coming back to you."
His hands come up. Grab my wrists. Not hard. Just holding. Anchoring.
“Promise me.” His voice breaks. Just for a second. But I hear it. Feel it. The fear underneath everything else.
I take his face between my hands. Force him to look at me.
“I promise."
“Say it again."
“I’m coming back."
“Again."
“I’m coming back to you."
His forehead drops to mine. His breathing is ragged. Uneven. Barely controlled.
“I can’t lose you," he whispers.
“You won’t."
“I can’t survive it."
“You won’t have to."
He pulls back. Just enough to look at me. His eyes are black. Completely black. The predator is staring at me. Desperate. Terrified. Barely leashed. I slide my hands from his face down to his chest. Feel his heart hammering.
“Come here," I say. Soft.
Not a command. An invitation. I take his hand. Lead him to the bed. He follows. Silent. Tense. Like he’s afraid to hope for what I’m offering. I turn to face him. Reach up. Start unbuttoning his shirt. Slow. Deliberate. His hands hover. Uncertain. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch.
“It’s okay," I say.
My fingers work down the buttons. One by one.
His breathing changes. Deepens. I push the shirt off his shoulders.
Let it fall. My hands go to his chest. Palms flat.
Feeling the heat of his skin. The rapid beat of his heart.
He’s trembling. Just slightly. I lean in.
Press my lips to his chest. Right over his heart.
He inhales. Sharp. His hands finally move.
To my waist. Gentle. Reverent. Like I’m something precious.
Something he’s afraid to break. I pull back.
Look up at him. His eyes are still dark.
But there’s something else there now. Something softer.
More vulnerable. I reach for the hem of my shirt.
Pull it over my head. Drop it. His eyes track the movement.
Then return to my face. “Amethyst," he breathes.
My name. Just my name. But it sounds like a prayer. I step closer. Press against him. Skin to skin. His arms wrap around me. Careful. Controlled. But I can feel the tension in him. The need. The desperation.
“I’m here," I say against his chest. “Right now, I’m here."
His grip tightens. Just a fraction. I tilt my head back.
Look at him. His eyes are searching mine.
Looking for permission. For certainty. For something to hold onto.
I reach up. Pull his mouth down to mine.
The kiss is slow. Deep. Nothing like the violent claiming in the woods.
This is different. This is about connection.
About being present. About memorizing each other.
His hands move up my back. Tracing. Learning.
Like he’s trying to commit every inch to memory.
Like he’s preparing for the possibility that memories are all he’ll have left.
I break the kiss. Step back just enough to work at his belt. His jeans. He helps. Kicks them off.