Those three simple words hung between us, loaded with meaning I wasn’t ready to unpack. I looked away, focusing on the snow collecting on the sidewalk, the way it muffled the sounds of the city.
“So what now?” I asked.
“Now?” He stepped back, giving me space I wasn’t sure I wanted. “Now we get you somewhere warm before you turn into an icicle. And then…” He tilted his head, considering. “And then we figure out what you want to do tonight.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever you want.” He gestured to his bike. “We could grab dinner somewhere comfortable. Or go back to my place—just to talk,” he added quickly, seeing my expression. “Or I can take you home, if that’s what you need.”
The offer of choice was so simple, yet it left me speechless. When was the last time someone had asked what I wanted without an agenda?
I took a deep breath, the cold air stinging my lungs. Something in me was shifting, walls crumbling that I wasn’t ready to let fall completely. “I can’t do dinner. Not tonight.”
His expression didn’t change, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. “Alright.”
“I need...” I ran a hand through my snow-damp hair, searching for words that wouldn’t hurt him but would still protect me. “I need some space. To figure things out.”
“Space,” he repeated, the word neutral in a way that told me he was carefully controlling his reaction. “How much space are we talking about here?”
“I don’t know.” That was true. I didn’t know what I needed, only that the intensity of whatever was happening between us felt like drowning. “A few days, maybe. I’m not—” I looked up at him, needing him to understand. “I’m not ending this. I just need to get my head straight.”
He studied me for a long moment, his silver eyes unreadable in the fading light. Then he nodded once, decisive. “Take whatever time you need.”
“You’re not mad?”
A wry smile touched his lips. “I didn’t say that, but I understand needing time to process.” He reached out, brushing snowflakes from my shoulder with a gentleness that made my chest ache. “Just don’t disappear on me.”
“I won’t,” I promised, meaning it despite the fear still coiled in my stomach.
He swung a leg over his bike, the engine roaring to life with a turn of his key. “Do you wanta ride home?”
I shook my head. “I think I’ll walk. Clear my head.”
“It’s freezing.”
“I have your jacket,” I reminded him, pulling it tighter around me.
He looked like he wanted to argue, but he just nodded again. “Keep it. It looks better on you, anyway.”
Before I could respond, he lowered his visor and pulled away from the curb, snow swirling in his wake. I watched until his taillights disappeared around a corner, feeling both relieved and strangely bereft.
The walk back to the shop was quiet, the snow muffling the usual city sounds. I used the time to sort through the tangle of emotions Kronos had stirred up—the fear, the want, the lingering certainty that I’d find some way to ruin this, too.
By the time I reached Twyla’s, my fingers were numb and my thoughts were still chaotic, but one thing had become clear: whatever this thing with Kronos was, I wasn’t ready to let it go. Not yet.
His leather jacket hung heavy on my shoulders as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, carrying his scent, his warmth. A reminder that, for now at least, I had been given a choice—and the space to figure out what I wanted.
I just hoped I wouldn’t take too long to figure it out.
Chapter Nine
The Heist
The sequined bodysuit itched in places I didn’t want to think about. I tugged at the tight fabric, trying to find a comfortable position as I crouched behind the dumpster, watching the back door of Ogygia. My heart hammered so hard I was certain anyone passing by would hear it.
It hadn’t been that long since I’d walked out of this place, and now I was going back in. But Kronos was out-of-town tracking his bail jumper, Twyla was visiting her parents for the weekend, and the timing couldn’t be more perfect. The Madam always had her weekly meeting with her higher-ups on Thursday nights—the one night I could be certain she wouldn’t be here.
More importantly, tonight was my last chance. I’d almost deleted Cassie’s mass text without reading it—seeing her name still brought back too many memories. But the subject line caught my eye.
