Time seemed to stop.
Maxwell stood frozen on the ladder, Isabella's gun aimed at his skull, her finger resting on the trigger.
"Isabella," Maxwell said carefully, his voice low. "Put the gun down."
"Why?" Her smile was poison. "So you can run off with your little pet? I don't think so."
I didn't think. My hand moved on instinct, pulling the gun Maxwell had given me from my waistband.
"Let him go," I said, my voice steadier than my hands.
Isabella's eyes flicked to me—amused, dismissive. "Oh, how precious. The student thinks she's a hero."
"I said let him go."
"Or what? You'll shoot me?" She laughed. "Darling, I've been killing people since before you learned to tie your shoes. You really think you can—"
I fired.
The shot went wide—intentionally. The bullet sparked off the metal wall inches from Isabella's head.
Her amusement vanished.
"Next one doesn't miss," I said, my voice cold.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Isabella's expression shifted—calculation flickering across her face. She was weighing her options: take the shot at Maxwell and risk me firing, or retreat and regroup.
"You know what?" Isabella lowered her gun slowly. "You're right. This isn't the place." Her eyes locked on Maxwell. "But this isn't over, Dante. Not even close. The Society wants that ledger. And they'll go through everyone you care about to get it."
Her gaze slid to me. "Starting with her."
Then she was gone—disappearing back into the tunnel like smoke.
"Move!" Maxwell hauled himself up the ladder. "She's calling for backup!"
We sprinted to the car. Maxwell threw himself into the driver's seat while I dove into the passenger side, still clutching the ledger.
Tires squealed as we peeled out of the garage.
Ten Minutes Later
We were somewhere on the outskirts of the city, highway lights blurring past in streaks.
My hands were still shaking. Adrenaline buzzed through my veins like electricity.
"You okay?" Maxwell's voice cut through the silence.
"I shot at your wife."
"Ex-wife," he corrected. "And technically, she was already dead. So really, you shot at a ghost."
Despite everything—the danger, the fear, the insanity of it all—I laughed. It came out shaky and half-hysterical.
Maxwell's lips twitched. Almost a smile.
"You did good back there," he said quietly. "The warning shot. Most people would've frozen."
"I didn't think. I just—" I broke off, staring at the gun still in my lap. "Is this who I am now? Someone who shoots at people?"
"No." Maxwell's voice was firm. "You're someone who protects herself. There's a difference."
Silence settled between us, heavy with unspoken things.
"So," I said finally, "your wife was Arrow Society the whole time. Your entire marriage was a lie."
"Yes."
"And she faked her death to protect you."
"So she says."
"Do you believe her?"
Maxwell's jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the road. "I don't know what I believe anymore."
I studied his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the barely-contained rage simmering beneath his calm exterior.
"Did you love her?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Maxwell's hands tightened on the steering wheel. For a long moment, he didn't answer.
"I thought I did," he said finally. "But how can you love someone you never really knew? The woman I married—Isabella—she doesn't exist. She never did. She was just a character played by an Arrow Society operative."
"That must've been hell," I whispered. "Grieving someone who wasn't even real."
"The grief was real." His voice was rough. "Even if she wasn't."
My chest ached for him. This man—dangerous, violent, cold—had been shattered by betrayal and loss. And somehow, impossibly, I was caught in the wreckage with him.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Safe house. About two hours north. It's off the grid—no records, no paper trail. We can regroup there, figure out our next move."
"And then?"
"Then we contact Sarah Chen. Get the ledger to her before the Arrow Society finds us."
"They already found us once."
"Because Isabella knew where to look." Maxwell's voice hardened. "But she doesn't know about the safe house. No one does. We'll be safe there."
I wanted to believe him. But the word safe felt like a fantasy now.
Midnight
The safe house was a cabin buried deep in the woods—small, isolated, invisible from the main road.
Maxwell killed the headlights and pulled around back, parking the car out of sight.
"Stay close," he ordered as we approached the door.
He unlocked it with a key hidden under a loose stone, then swept through the interior with his gun drawn, checking every room, every corner.
"Clear," he said finally.
I stepped inside. It was sparse—a single bedroom, a small kitchen, a bathroom. Functional, not comfortable.
"There's food in the pantry," Maxwell said, locking the door behind us and engaging three separate deadbolts. "Canned goods mostly. And a generator out back if we need power."
"How long are we staying?"
"As long as it takes." He moved to the window, peering through the blinds into darkness. "Twenty-four hours minimum. Give the heat time to die down."
Twenty-four hours. Alone. With him.
My pulse kicked up for reasons that had nothing to do with danger.
"You should sleep," Maxwell said, not looking at me. "Take the bedroom. I'll keep watch."
"You're injured. You need rest more than I do."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding through your bandage."
He glanced down. Sure enough, crimson was seeping through the white gauze on his shoulder.
"It's nothing," he said dismissively.
"Sit down." I grabbed the first-aid kit from my bag—the same one I'd used twice before. "I'm not letting you bleed out because you're too stubborn to admit you need help."
For a moment, I thought he'd argue. Then, with a resigned sigh, Maxwell lowered himself onto the couch.
I knelt in front of him, carefully peeling away the soaked bandage. The wound had reopened—not badly, but enough to need fresh stitches.
"This is going to hurt," I warned.
"It always does."
I worked quickly, cleaning the wound, applying antiseptic, stitching it closed with steady hands. Maxwell didn't flinch. Didn't make a sound.
But I felt the tension in his body—the barely restrained pain, the exhaustion he was fighting.
"There," I said finally, taping down a fresh bandage. "Done."
"Thank you."
Our eyes met. He was close—so close I could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises, the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the faint scar above his eyebrow.
"Mia," he said quietly. "What you did tonight—standing up to Isabella, refusing to run—you didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did."
"Why?"
The question hung between us, heavy with meaning.
Because I'm in this now. Because you need me. Because somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing you as just my professor and started seeing you as... something else.
But I couldn't say any of that. Couldn't admit that despite everything—the danger, the lies, the violence—I was falling for a man who was supposed to be my enemy.
"Because someone has to have your back," I said instead. "And right now, that someone is me."
Something flickered in Maxwell's eyes—surprise, maybe. Or recognition.
His hand lifted, hovering near my face. For a breathless moment, I thought he'd touch me.
Then he pulled back, the walls slamming back into place.
"You should get some rest," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
3 AM
I couldn't sleep.
I lay in the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with everything that had happened.
Isabella. The Arrow Society. The ledger. Sarah Chen.
And Maxwell—no, Dante—keeping watch in the next room, refusing to let himself rest even though his body was screaming for it.
Finally, I gave up and padded into the living room.
He was sitting by the window, gun within reach, his eyes fixed on the darkness outside.
"Can't sleep?" he asked without looking at me.
"Neither can you."
"I don't sleep much anymore. Hazard of the profession."
I settled onto the couch beside him—not too close, but close enough to feel the warmth of him in the cold room.
"Tell me something," I said quietly. "Before all this—before the Arrow Society, before Isabella—who were you?"
Maxwell was silent for so long I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then: "Nobody. Just a kid from nowhere with nothing to lose."
"How did you end up with them?"
"The Society recruits young. Finds kids with potential—smart, fast, angry. Kids nobody will miss if they disappear." His voice was flat, emotionless. "I was sixteen when they found me. Seventeen when they trained me to kill. By eighteen, I was one of their best."
"And the professor thing?"
"Cover identity. The Society places operatives everywhere—universities, corporations, government. I was supposed to be gathering intelligence on certain students, faculty members. People they were interested in."
My stomach dropped. "Is that why you—were you watching me? Before all this?"
"No." He finally looked at me, his eyes dark and intense. "You were never a target, Mia. You were just... there. A complication I didn't expect."
"Some complication."
His lips curved—barely. "The most dangerous kind."
The air between us shifted, charged with something electric.
"Why did you steal the ledger?" I asked. "If the Society was your whole life, why betray them?"
Maxwell's expression darkened. "Because I finally saw them for what they really are. Not protectors or providers. Just predators. And I was tired of being their weapon."
"So you took their secrets."
"All of them. Every crime, every kill, every politician they own. And now they want it back badly enough to come after me. After you."
"Do you regret it? Taking the ledger?"
"No." His voice was absolute. "I regret a lot of things. But that's not one of them."
Silence settled between us again. But this time it felt different—less heavy, more... intimate.
"Mia," Maxwell said softly. "You know this gets worse before it gets better, right? Isabella was just the beginning. When the full weight of the Arrow Society comes down, it's going to be brutal."
"I know."
"You could still walk away. I could set you up with a new identity, money, a clean start—"
"Stop." I cut him off. "I'm not leaving. I've told you that already."
"Why?" His eyes searched mine, looking for an answer he couldn't seem to find. "Why are you still here?"
Because I'm falling for you. Because when I look at you, I don't see a monster—I see someone fighting to be good. Because despite everything, you make me feel alive.
But I couldn't say that. Not yet.
"Because you need me," I said instead. "And maybe... I need this too."
"Need what?"
"To matter. To be more than just some broke college student who can't even pay her rent. To be someone who fights back."
Understanding flickered across Maxwell's face. "You're not doing this for me. You're doing it for yourself."
"Maybe it's both."
He studied me for a long moment. Then, slowly, his hand reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was gentle—impossibly gentle for someone with so much blood on his hands.
"You're dangerous, Mia," he murmured. "More dangerous than Isabella. More dangerous than the entire Arrow Society."
"Why?"
"Because you make me want things I shouldn't want. Feel things I shouldn't feel."
My breath caught. "Like what?"
His thumb traced my jawline, sending shivers down my spine.
"Like this."
Then his lips were on mine.