Silas watched Elara as she paced the length of the glass room. She was a caged leopard, her grief turning into a sharp, jagged rage.
"He's my father, Silas," she said, her voice cracking. "How could he?"
Silas stood up, ignoring the protest of his aching muscles. He walked over to her, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to look at him.
"In our world, family isn't blood, Elara. It's the person who holds the light when the world goes dark. Your father chose his side. Now you have to choose yours."
"I choose revenge," she hissed.
"Good. Because to get to him, we have to play the ultimate game. He thinks we're dead. We're going to show up at that gala as his greatest nightmare."
They spent the next twelve hours training. Silas's body was still weak, but his mind was a weapon. They practiced close-quarters combat in the villa's gym, their bodies clashing, sweating, and straining against each other.
It wasn't just training. It was an outlet for the electric tension that had been building since Tokyo.
During a grappling session, Silas pinned her to the mat. His chest was heaving, his face inches from hers. The smell of her sweat was intoxicating.
"You're distracted," he whispered, his weight pressing her into the padding.
"I'm not," she panted, her legs locking around his waist to flip him.
They rolled, a tangle of limbs and heat, until they hit the wall. Silas didn't let go. He trapped her wrists above her head.
"Tell me the truth, Elara. If we survive Zurich... what happens to us?"
Elara looked at his lips, then back to his eyes. She didn't answer with words. She leaned forward and bit his lower lip—a hard, primal claim.
"If we survive," she whispered against his mouth, "I'm going to make you regret ever meeting me. Because I'm never letting you go again."
The villa's alarm suddenly blared—a low, rhythmic thrum.
"Multiple heat signatures detected on the north slope," the AI voice announced. "High-altitude paragliders. ETA: Three minutes."