Page 48 of Forged in Fire
Chapter 15
Iris
The flight changes everything.
I can feel it in the way Riven moves beside me through Râ?nov’s narrow streets, in the careful distance he maintains that somehow feels closer than touching. We walk like tourists instead of fugitives—just another couple exploring the medieval city as it wakes around us.
We stopped on the way to pick up some items Riven had hidden just outside the town limits in case of emergency. And I guess that’s what this is. Cash in three currencies, clean clothes, basic medical supplies, and a burner phone with local contacts. Under different circumstances, I might call him paranoid. Right now, I’m seriously impressed with how organized the man is.
“We’ll be staying in the old district,” he tells me, glancing across the street both ways before crossing. He’d made a call after we picked up his gear, speaking rapid Romanian to someone who seemed to know him.
“Won’t they know to look for you here?” I ask. “Your… friends, I mean.”
He shakes his head. “Unlikely. I set up false trails through half the region.”
“You’re joking.” I stare at him.
“No. Pays to be prepared in my line of business.”
I haven’t fully pinned down exactly what the business is, but I have a good feeling.
“Right,” I say, letting myself get immersed in the bustle around us.
Shopkeepers roll up metal grates with theatrical clanging. Early commuters clutch steaming coffee cups. The smell of fresh bread drifts from a bakery window, making my stomach clench with hunger I’ve been ignoring for hours.
Normal. Peaceful. Everything my life hasn’t been since Kieran was taken.
But underneath the ordinary morning sounds, I catch the subtle signs of a man still operating in survival mode. The way Riven’s eyes monitor every exit, every potential threat. How he positions himself to shield me from the street despite trying to look casual about it.
The way he hasn’t quite stopped protecting me.
What’s that about?
The guesthouse sits tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, like something from a fairy tale. Three stories of weathered stone that’s probably older than most countries, with window boxes full of purple flowers that smell like honey and rain.
The proprietor—a compact man with a receding hairline and knowing eyes—takes Riven’s cash without comment. Hands over a key attached to a wooden dragon carved with intricate scales.
“Etajul doi,” he says in Romanian, then switches to accented English. “Second floor. Quiet neighbors.”
Translation: he doesn’t ask questions, and neither do the other guests.
Our room is small but clean. Two narrow beds separated by a wooden table that’s probably been hosting clandestine conversations for decades. A small bathroom with a shower, washbasin, and toilet; sparse but clean. A window looks out over red tile roofs toward the mountains we just crossed in defiance of gravity and common sense.
Safe. At least for now.
“Not bad,” I say, testing one of the beds. The mattress gives under my weight with the kind of comfortable squeak that speaks of actual springs instead of foam. “Better than a rock crevice.”
Riven grunts agreement, but he’s already moving with purpose, setting medical supplies on the table between our beds. When he turns toward the window, I catch sight of the dark stain spreading across his sleeve.
Blood. His blood, from the bullet that was meant for me.
“Let me look at that,” I say, nodding toward his arm.
“I can handle it.”
Of course he can. Because admitting he needs help would probably kill him faster than blood loss.
“I’m sure you can.” I’m already reaching for the supplies, ignoring his stubborn male pride. “But you can’t reach the angle properly, and we both know it needs cleaning.”
