“And what happens then?”
“We move.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“It’s the only one that works.”
I stare through the windshield at the bar lights.
Something twists in my chest.
It’s not fear.
It’s not relief.
It’s the realization that this is real now.
I stood my ground.
And Nico didn’t flinch.
Maybe we are a team.
Maybe not.
But right now?
I’m not alone in this fight.
And for the first time in a long time, that matters.
Chapter 8 – Nico
I sit on the arm of the couch. Elbows on knees, mask in hand. The room smells like old perfume and fake sparkle—glitter melted into the cracks of the floor, crushed into velvet that’s seen too many seasons and too few cleanings.
Outside, the club’s still vibrating. Bass pulses through the wall like a warning shot that never ends.
She comes through the door without knocking.
Boots scuff. Chain swings. She’s dressed in all black again, tank top and jeans, hair pulled back like she’s done pretending to care how people look at her.
Except me.
She always looks at me like she’s waiting for proof that I’m not bluffing.
Tonight, she might get it.
I hold up the black lace mask. It dangles between two fingers. “Play a round with me.”
Elara arches a brow. “You serious?”
I nod.
“You’re the thief,” I say. “I’m the guard.”
“What am I stealing?”
“Whatever you think I’m hiding.”