Nova's POV
I'm not yours, I say, but the words lack conviction now.
Caspian's eyes hold mine for a beat too long. We'll see.
The confidence in his voice sends heat curling through me despite everything.
He turns back to his monitors, typing rapidly. Sit down, Nova. You need to see something.
We're about to be attacked and you want me to look at files?
You need to understand why they want you dead badly enough to send an army. He pulls up a chair beside his. Sit.
It's a command, and I should argue, but something in his tone makes me obey.
I sink into the chair. He moves his closer—close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Close enough that I catch his scent again. Cedar and winter nights and something uniquely him.
Focus, Nova.
Caspian pulls up financial records. Code repositories. Email chains. His fingers fly across the keyboard with the same lethal efficiency he does everything else.
Eighteen months ago, you were working on something at Helix Technologies, he says. An AI algorithm.
My breath catches. Prometheus. I called it Prometheus.
You gave Julian access to that code. Trusted him with it. He glances at me, and we're so close I can see gold flecks in his gray eyes. Why?
We were engaged. The words taste bitter. Planning our wedding. I thought I stop, humiliation burning through me.
You thought he loved you. Caspian's voice is gentler now. That you could trust him with your work.
I was an idiot.
You were betrayed. His hand moves toward mine on the armrest, stops just short of touching. There's a difference.
The almost-touch makes my skin tingle with awareness.
He pulls up patent filings. Julian didn't just use your code. He stole it. Filed for the patent under his own name. Claimed he developed it.
Rage floods through me, mixing with the unwanted heat of having Caspian this close.
He built Helix Technologies' entire platform on my algorithm, I whisper.
More than that. Caspian zooms in on purchase agreements. His knee brushes mine as he leans forward. The contact sends electricity up my leg. He's selling it. Three weeks from now, Julian closes a deal with a Russian syndicate.
What?
Dmitri Volkov's organization. Two billion dollars for exclusive rights to Prometheus.
I can't breathe. Two billion. For my code.
Volkov wants it for cybercrime, Caspian continues, his voice dropping lower. Your algorithm can break through any security system in existence. Banks. Governments. Military. With Prometheus, Volkov becomes unstoppable.
Horror washes over me. I built that code to help people.
I know. Caspian finally touches me—just his fingers on my wrist, but the contact burns. I've read your original research proposal. You wanted to revolutionize AI-assisted healthcare.
He read my research. He knows not just my routine, but my dreams.
But you're the only person who can prove Julian stole it, he says quietly, thumb brushing over my racing pulse. The only witness who can destroy the deal.
Understanding crashes into me. So he has to kill me before the sale closes.
Yes. Caspian's grip tightens fractionally. After Volkov pays and takes possession, your testimony becomes worthless. Julian gets his money. But if you expose the theft now—
The whole thing falls apart. My voice shakes. I'm not just a loose end.
You're a two-billion-dollar problem. His eyes meet mine, and the intensity in them steals my breath. That's why they won't stop, Nova. Why I won't let you out of my sight.
The possessive edge in his voice makes my pulse spike where his fingers rest against my skin.
How do you know all this? I ask. About Volkov? About the deal?
I'm very good at finding things people want hidden. A hint of darkness crosses his face. Hacking. Surveillance. Intelligence gathering. It's what I did before my sister died.
Before?
His jaw clenches. Before I used those skills for revenge instead of profit.
I should ask more questions, but his thumb is still moving against my wrist in slow, hypnotic circles that are definitely not professional.
Alarms blare. Caspian's hand leaves my wrist—I immediately miss the warmth—as he pulls up new camera feeds.
They're moving faster than I predicted, he mutters. Someone on that team knows what they're doing.
On screen, the tactical team reaches the third floor.
How long? My voice comes out breathier than I'd like.
Ninety minutes. He types rapidly. Maybe less.
Fear spikes through me, cutting through the attraction. Can you stop them?
I can try. But his voice lacks certainty. My security systems can handle a lot, but—
His computer erupts with new alerts. Different alarms. Higher pitched.
Caspian goes perfectly still.
What? I lean closer to see the screens. Our shoulders press together. What is it?
He's pulling up street-level cameras, his body tense against mine. More vehicles arriving. A truck. Men unloading equipment.
So many men.
How many? I whisper.
Thirty. His voice is hollow. This isn't a kill team anymore.
Then what is it?
He turns his head, and suddenly our faces are inches apart. I can feel his breath. See the fear in his eyes—real fear that somehow makes him more human, more real.
This is an execution squad, he says quietly. Volkov himself authorized this.
My hands start shaking. Caspian notices, covers one with his own.
Hey. His voice drops to that smooth whiskey tone. Look at me.
I meet his eyes.
I've survived worse, he says. I've fought harder battles. I will not let them take you.
Caspian
But I need you to understand something. His hand tightens on mine. To survive this, you have to trust me completely. Can you do that?
I should say no. Should keep my distance from this dangerous, obsessive man.
But his hand is warm on mine, and his eyes hold a fierce protectiveness that makes me feel safe for the first time in eighteen months.
I don't even know you, I whisper.
You know I've kept you alive for eight months. His thumb strokes across my knuckles. You know I'm the only thing standing between you and thirty killers. And you know—
He stops, jaw working.
Know what?
His eyes search mine. That I would rather die than let them touch you.
The intensity of it steals my breath. This isn't just protection. It's something darker. Deeper.
More dangerous.
Before I can respond, every screen goes dark.
All of them. Simultaneously.
Caspian pulls me up and behind him in one smooth motion, his body a wall between me and potential threat.
The screens flicker back on. But the images are different.
A face fills the main monitor. A man. Late fifties. Cold eyes. Expensive suit.
Mr. Mercer, the man says in a heavy Russian accent. I know you can hear me.
Caspian's entire body goes rigid. Volkov.
Give me the girl, and you live. Refuse, and you both die. Volkov's smile is terrifying. You have five minutes to decide.
The screen goes black.
I'm shaking. Caspian turns, pulls me against his chest. His heart pounds as hard as mine.
He hacked your system, I breathe against his shoulder.
Just communications. But his arms tighten around me. Showing off. Trying to scare us.
It's working.
Nova. He pulls back just enough to look down at me, hands framing my face. I need you to answer something honestly.
What?
His thumbs stroke my cheekbones, the gesture tender despite the calluses. Do you trust me?
I should say no.
But his hands are gentle on my face, and his eyes burn with fierce determination, and some broken part of me recognizes the same brokenness in him.
I don't know, I whisper. But I want to.
Something flashes in his eyes. Relief? Hope?
Then let me show you why you should.
He releases me, turns to his computers. Pulls up one more camera feed I haven't seen before.
My apartment.
But not empty.
Someone's inside. A woman. Going through my desk, pulling out files. Wearing an FBI jacket like she belongs there.
The camera angle shifts, showing her face.
My heart stops.
No, I breathe.
Because the woman helping them hunt me, the woman betraying me to killers—
Is my sister Sienna.