The rowhouse was colder than the street outside, but Naomi Glass lit another cigarette anyway. Smoke curled above her as she sat on the sagging couch, staring at the patched floorboards like they might pulse if she waited long enough.
Cormac's voice echoed in her head—"If the kid cracks, we put him under the floor too."
She believed him. And that scared her more than Ezra's fists ever could.
Naomi wasn't built like them. She wasn't Hollow, with his dead eyes and endless paranoia. She wasn't Ezra, all bone and violence. She wasn't Silas either, shaking in corners, guilt chewing him alive.
She was smarter. Quieter. Patient in ways they weren't.
She thought about the duffels under the floorboards—the stacks of cash, the watch, the gun. Blood money, yes, but also freedom. She could almost feel the weight of it in her hands, imagine slipping away before anyone noticed.
But then Cormac's shadow filled the doorway, cigarette glowing. He watched her without blinking, like he already knew the thoughts running through her head.
"You drifting again?" he asked, his voice too calm.
Naomi blew smoke slow, keeping her face steady. "Just thinking."
"Thinking don't change nothing," he said, stepping closer. "Only moving does. And I'm the one who decides where we move."
His hand brushed her cheek like a lover, but his eyes were hollow, hungry. "You with me, Naomi?"
She forced a smile, nodding. "Always."
But inside, her chest was tight, her thoughts louder than the creaking walls.
She wasn't sure if she was with him anymore—or with herself.
And she knew, sooner or later, she'd have to choose.
The house groaned again, a low, unsettling sound. Naomi glanced at the floor and whispered under her breath, so soft even Hollow couldn't hear:
"Secrets don't stay buried."