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Then he lifts my chin so I’m looking into his emerald-green eyes. “I love you, Ella Hart. I love you.”

Then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is not soft.

There is nothing gentle left in this night.

It’s desperate and bruising, a collision of terror and dirt and need. I grab the front of his ruined shirt with my free hand, clinging to him because the corridor feels like it might rip us apart if I don’t.

He kisses me like he is memorizing me.

Like he’s angry with me for being something he can lose.

I taste salt.

I don’t know if it’s his tears or mine.

For one moment, I let myself believe in impossible things.

That the safe house will be enough.

That tomorrow is waiting for us.

Then Nathaniel pulls away. “Go,” he says. “Go now.”

I nod because if I speak, I might beg. And I refuse to beg him not to protect me. I refuse to make this harder than it already is.

I step back.

The key fob is in my hand.

The gun is hidden in my pocket.

The coordinates are burned into my memory.

“Don’t look back,” he says.

I nod.

“And Ella?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

The words give me strength, and I sniff back tears. “I love you too.” I don’t dare look at him when I say it, or I won’t leave.

I move up the narrow service stair as quietly as I can, one hand brushing the wall, the other near the gun in my apron. My legs shake. My breath catches with every creak, every shift of air, every distant groan from the house.

Ahead of me waits the east garage.

The black Range Rover.

The lower service road.

A safe house no Vexley knows exists.

Or so Nathaniel believes.