Chapter 28 — POV: Lyra
The ride back from NexaTech was silent.Not awkward — tense.The kind of tension that didn't fizzle with time, but stretched like a bowstring pulled too far, humming with the promise of something sharp.
I leaned back into the cool leather seat of the Maybach, eyes fixed on the city outside. The tinted glass turned the lights into smeared streaks of gold and red, like war paint across the skyline. The hum of the engine was smooth, almost too smooth — the kind that made you notice every thought because there was nothing else to distract you.
Across from me, Kieller sat with the precision of a man who was always in control. One leg crossed lazily over the other, hands resting loosely on the seat. The looseness was an act — his eyes never left me.
Finally, he broke the silence."You didn't sign."
I turned my head, meeting his gaze with deliberate slowness. "Neither did they."
His jaw shifted, the muscle there tightening for just a second before his voice dropped into that smooth, dangerous register."You think they'll bite without more leverage?"
"They already have," I said, keeping my tone light. "They just don't know it yet."
It wasn't arrogance. It was fact.NexaTech needed me more than they'd ever admit. The tricky part was making them realize it — but only when I was ready to let them. Until then, their overconfidence was my playground.
We descended into the underground garage, the Maybach gliding into its reserved bay. The smell of gasoline and faint traces of expensive cologne from passing suits clung to the air. My heels clicked softly against the polished concrete as I stepped out.
That's when I saw him.
Gray.Leaning casually against the wall near the elevator bank, as if the shadows were part of his wardrobe.
"You're back early," he said, voice too casual to be casual.
I arched a brow. "And you're still alive. Life's full of surprises."
The corner of his mouth twitched, but it didn't become a smile. Kieller's glance toward him was pure threat — sharp, silent, enough to strip paint off steel — but he didn't speak.
We stepped into the elevator, the air inside somehow warmer, heavier. Gray stood a little too close for comfort, his cologne brushing against my senses.
"You're playing dangerous games, Lyra," he murmured, his tone pitched just enough for only me to hear.
I tilted my head toward the mirrored wall, watching his reflection instead of him. "That's the only kind worth playing."
The mirrored panels didn't lie — Gray's eyes were searching, measuring. Kieller stood behind him, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the elevator rail like it was a weapon.
The doors slid open on my floor. I stepped out, heels clicking against the thick carpet. My suite door waited at the end of the hall — and something else.
An envelope.
It had been slid under the door, its corner catching on the carpet fibers. Heavy cream paper. My name, written in ink with the kind of handwriting that belonged to someone patient enough to kill slowly.
I crouched, picking it up. No return address. No seal. Just weight.
Inside was a single black feather.
No note. No threat in words. Just the kind you could feel in your bones.
I didn't need a signature. I knew exactly who it was from.
My fingers curled around it, the barbs bending under the pressure, soft but unyielding. A reminder. A calling card. A warning.
The past wasn't dead. It never had been.It was patient.It waited.And tonight, it was here.
Kieller's shadow fell over me. "What is it?"
I slid the feather into my coat pocket. "Nothing you need to worry about."
He didn't even blink. "Which means it's exactly what I need to worry about."
The hall was empty but for us, the air pressing down, our words heavier than the silence between them.
"You think you know everything about me, Kieller," I said quietly, "but there are places in me you'll never touch."
His eyes darkened, his voice a low growl. "I've already touched them. You just don't want to admit it."
We stood there for a long moment — too close, too defiant, too aware of the space between breaths. His presence was heat and danger all at once, a storm pressing against glass.
Finally, I brushed past him, the scent of his cologne trailing behind me like smoke. The door to my suite clicked shut with deliberate finality.
I leaned against it, closing my eyes. My hand stayed in my pocket, fingers tracing the edges of the feather.
If they thought I'd break…They'd forgotten I'd learned to bleed in style.
I crossed to the minibar, pouring myself a glass of whiskey neat. The amber liquid caught the city lights spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning them into fire in crystal.
From here, the skyline looked untouchable. But I knew better — every light had a power source, and every power source had a weakness. The same was true for people.
I sipped slowly, letting the burn anchor me. Somewhere below, the city moved on, unaware of the war quietly unfolding in its veins.
The feather lay on the glass coffee table now, dark against the clean white marble. A single, silent promise.
I wasn't afraid.I was… calculating.
Because the cost of fire wasn't just in what it burned —It was in what it forced others to reveal when the heat rose too high.
And I had every intention of turning the temperature up.