Chapter 5 Lines on the Floor
Eli’s POV
Her voice hit me before the doorknob did.
“Eli.”
Not loud. Not a scream. But it had that thin edge under it, the one that said something was wrong in a way alarms never could. My fingers tightened and I turned the handle without hesitating. The rest of the night, everything that had led to this moment, rewound in my head like tape snapping.
It had started in the dark, before sunrise, when the city was still a smudge of lights under low cloud. I had moved through her penthouse the way I moved through any place I was supposed to keep safe.
Kitchen, clear. Living room, clear. Balcony door locked. I stopped without meaning to at her bedroom, the door open just enough for a slice of warm air and the faint sound of her breathing.
She was on her side, hair spread across the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek. Without all that metal and fabric she strapped to herself in daylight, she looked almost breakable. The brace on her wrist was the only hard thing in the picture.
I watched for exactly two heartbeats. Then I stepped back. Watching people sleep was not protection. That way lay lines you did not cross and things you could not take back.
At six, Mila turned up with a box of gear and a coffee that smelled like it might strip paint. We tore her network apart and rebuilt it.
“New router, separate mesh, proper segmentation,” Mila muttered as she worked. “I swear these architects think a nice sofa cancels out a garbage firewall.”
“Focus,” I said, but the corner of my mouth twitched.
We put cameras in the common areas, small dark eyes tucked into corners and vents, nothing in her bedroom, nothing in the bathroom. People deserved a door that closed without a lens on the other side.
By seven thirty I was shaking hands. Ava, trying not to look like she wanted to apologise for the entire world. The housekeeper, wringing her fingers in her apron. The driver, eyes a little too wide when I asked him why he had not been the one behind the wheel last night. The building manager pretending his security logs were not a joke as I walked him through each failure.
I listened to more than their words. Stutters. Avoided eye contact. Who stood straight when I asked a hard question and who folded. Threats did not just come from outside.
Sloane came out around eight in a navy suit that said she could buy and sell the block and had considered it. Tablet in hand, face smooth. The only sign of last night was the brace and the faint tightness at the corners of her mouth when she moved that wrist.
I laid out the day for her. Times, routes, what I wanted and what I absolutely would not allow. She pushed back on every restriction like she was testing a fence, looking for weak spots. It was almost impressive.
Then came the tracker.
When I knelt to buckle the copper band around her ankle, the air changed. Her skin was warm under my fingers, pulse jumping as the clasp clicked shut. She looked down at me with something sharp in her eyes that was not quite anger. It felt like staking a claim I had no right to, even though this was just another piece of kit in my mind.
“Comfortable?” I asked, standing.
“Not remotely,” she said, straightening her pant leg like she could erase the whole thing.
At Mercer, the building woke up as soon as we stepped out of the car. Phone flashes, the hum of people looking twice. One hand on my weapon, one palm ready to guide her, I moved us through the lobby. When a man stumbled in too fast, I blocked him, my knuckles scraping stone. Minor pain. Worth the look on her face when she saw the distance I kept between her and everyone else.
Later, in a narrow hallway, she caught my wrist and pulled my hand toward her.
“You are bleeding,” she said.
“Barely.”
She did not argue. She cleaned and wrapped the scrape with the same ruthless efficiency she used on budgets, and for those few minutes our roles flipped. I let her fuss over my hand. Her fingers were careful, firm. It was nothing, just a bandage, but my chest felt tight anyway.
The day finally spat us back into the penthouse. Harper swept in with jokes that landed too close to truths, and Sloane shut them down a little too hard, the way people do when they are afraid you might see more than they want. I did the final walk through, locked doors, armed the system, went over procedures. She nodded, distracted, and disappeared into her room.
Hours later, the penthouse was quiet again. My rounds became a metronome. Living room. Kitchen. Hall. Her door.
I was just passing it for what felt like the tenth time when her voice cracked through the wood.
“Eli.”
There was something in it that turned my blood cold. Not pain, exactly. Not the sharp panic from the garage. Something smaller and worse.
I opened the door.
She was sitting up in bed, hair loose and messy, sheet pulled to her chest. Her face was the color of paper. In her hands she held a single glossy photograph, fingers clenched so tight the edges bowed.
She looked at me like she was not sure if I was the problem or the solution. Then she turned the photo so I could see.
Two figures caught in a hotel hallway, bodies angled close, the dress and jacket I knew too well. Berlin carpet. Berlin door. Berlin timestamp glowing at the bottom. On the back, in thick red letters big enough to read even from where I stood: I can still get to you.
My heart stopped for one long, ugly beat.
The past we thought was ours alone was not just alive. It had teeth.