Page 45 of Storm
My eyes widen, and I glance nervously down the hallway. Reed's warning is still fresh in my mind, but she's already standing in my doorway. What harm could there be in talking? "Y-yeah, of course."
I step back, nearly tripping over my own feet as she enters. She moves past me, her scent filling the small space, making it hard to think straight. I leave the door open—partly to avoid suspicion, mostly because I need the air. My pulse hammers in my ears.
Storm wanders around the room, examining everything with casual curiosity. "Not bad. Better than the guard quarters, I bet."
"Definitely an upgrade," I agree, watching as she runs her fingers along the edge of the desk. I stay rooted near the door, unsure where to place myself, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. Her movements are controlled, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tap restlessly against any surface they touch.
"So," she says, turning back to face me, "want to tell me what the hell you're doing here?"
The bluntness of the question catches me off guard. I stammer, "I—I was going to ask you the same thing. One day you're at the Omega House, the next you're at Jonathan Kingsley penthouse."
Her expression darkens. "I didn't mean this to happen. It was—" She cuts herself off, glancing toward the open door. "It was supposed to be different. I had a plan."
"The address," I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper as I remember our hushed conversation in the library. "427 Crescent Avenue."
Storm's eyes widen slightly, surprise and maybe relief flickering across her face. "You remembered."
"Of course I do." How could I forget? It was the first time she'd ever shared anything real with me, the first glimpse beneath her carefully maintained defiance. I feel my cheeks warm again. "I went there, after... after everything happened."
Her entire body goes still. "You did? When?"
"The next morning." I swallow hard, the memory still raw. I study the carpet, unable to meet her intense gaze. "I thought maybe... I don't know what I thought. That I might find Rook there. That I might be able to help somehow." My voice trails off into a mumble.
"And?" Her voice is barely above a whisper now.
"There was no one there. Just an empty street corner." I don't tell her about the hours I spent waiting, the rain that soaked through my jacket, about the gnawing fear that grew with each passing minute that I would be found out by the Omega House form leaving the guard quarters. "I'm sorry." My shoulders hunch slightly, as though I'm personally responsible for Rook's absence.
Storm turns away, moving to the window. For a moment, she just stares out at the city below, her reflection in the glass showing a vulnerability she'd never allow me to see directly.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she says finally, her voice tight. "I was supposed to meet him. We were supposed to leave together."
I want to go to her, to offer some comfort, but Reed's warning keeps me rooted in place, my fingers twisting nervously together. "What happened?"
"I fucked up." She laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "I thought I was being clever. I figured in the chaos I could slip away." Her hands curl into fists at her sides. "I didn't count on him throwing me over his shoulder like a caveman, and then taking me to this penthouse, which is not close to the theater at all."
The pieces click into place. I knew she was going to rig the lottery with pack Kingsley. The public humiliation. The chaos that followed. It wasn't a political statement or a rebellion like everyone's saying—it was a desperate escape plan gone wrong.
"And now you're stuck here." It's not a question. I shuffle my weight from one foot to the other, uncertain if I should move closer.
She turns back to me, her expression hardening into something more familiar—the Storm I know, fierce and unyielding. "For now."
The determination in her voice sends a chill down my spine. She hasn't given up. Of course she hasn't. "Storm, what are you planning?" I whisper, my voice cracking slightly with anxiety.
Before she can answer, a shadow falls across the doorway. Reed stands there, his stormy blue eyes taking in the scene with dangerous calculation.
"Dinner," he says, his voice deceptively casual as he leans against the doorframe.
I nearly jump out of my skin at his sudden appearance, taking an instinctive step away from Storm.
"Jonathan wants us all at the table."
Storm rolls her eyes but moves toward the door. "Heaven forbid we keep his highness waiting."
Reed's gaze follows her, something I can't quite identify flickering in his eyes before they shift back to me. The message is clear. I'm being watched. I shrink under his scrutiny, dropping my eyes to the floor.
I follow them to the dining room, trailing a few steps behind, my heart still racing from Storm's half-confession. Whatever she's planning, it's going to be dangerous—for her, for me, for everyone involved.
The dining room is all sleek surfaces and modern design, the table large enough to seat ten but set for only four. Jonathan already sits at the head, his expression unreadable as we enter. Reed takes the seat to his right, while Storm deliberately chooses the chair furthest from Jonathan.
