The hideout in Priyal always smelled like rust, rain, and old secrets.
By the time I slipped through the back entrance of the abandoned print shop, the shouting had already started.
Of course it had.
The building sat tucked behind a row of rotting storefronts in the roughest corner of the ragged city, half-forgotten and leaning like it might collapse if the wind blew too hard. Upstairs, broken windows and dust. Downstairs, hidden beneath warped floorboards and crumbling walls, it belonged to us.
To Amelia.
To the crew.
To the kind of people the city pretended not to see.
Tonight, apparently, it belonged to Carl's outrage.
"You disappeared!"
I shut the door behind me, tugging my hood down as I stepped into the candlelit basement.
Carl stood near the center table, arms flung wide like he was personally delivering a speech to the gods. Justin leaned against the edge of the table beside him, jaw tight, looking equally irritated but far less dramatic.
A spread of maps, lockpicks, empty satchels, and half-counted coins lay scattered between them.
And on the far side of the room-
Damian.
My pulse betrayed me immediately.
He stood apart from the others, one hand resting on the back of a chair, his dark coat still damp from the night air, his expression unreadable in the flickering light.
But his eyes-
His eyes were already on me.
Carl pointed at me like I'd committed some unforgivable crime. "Do you know how badly that could have gone?"
Justin gave a sharp nod. "We nearly got cornered because half the team vanished."
I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall beside the door, trying for calm, even as the memory of the manor still clung to my skin.
The rush of footsteps.
The heat of danger.
A pair of golden eyes in the dark.
A mouth far too close to mine.
I forced the thought down.
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"That is not the point," Carl snapped.
"That's at least part of the point."
Justin straightened. "Amelia disappeared. Sydney disappeared.
Then you disappeared. The rest of us had to improvise while guards swarmed the grounds."
I exhaled slowly.
That part was true.
The job had unraveled fast. Too fast.
One wrong turn, one shift in timing, and suddenly the whole night had splintered in six different directions.
And somewhere in the middle of all of it-
I'd stolen more than I was supposed to.
Carl raked a hand through his hair.
"We had one plan."
"We had six backup plans," I corrected.
"None of which included vanishing into thin air."
"Maybe if your distraction wasn't so loud-"
"My distraction," Carl said, offended, "was brilliant."
"It was a mess," Justin muttered.
"It was theatrical."
"It was panicked."
"It was art."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
But before I could say anything else, Damian moved.
It was subtle.
Just a few quiet steps across the room.
Still, the shift was enough to make Carl shut up mid-rant.
Damian came to stand in front of me, close enough that I could smell rain and cedar on him, close enough that the others seemed to disappear at the edges of the room.
His gaze swept over me once.
My face.
My hands.
My shoulders.
My side.
Searching.
Checking.
And then, in a voice low enough to feel private, he asked-
"How are you feeling?"
Silence.
Actual, impossible silence.
Carl blinked.
Justin looked between us like he'd just remembered he was standing in the middle of something he absolutely should not interrupt.
I stared at Damian, startled.
Not because he cared.
I knew he cared.
He always had.
But because he didn't usually let the others see it.
And the concern in his voice-so quiet, so sincere, so completely unguarded-struck somewhere deep inside me that I did not appreciate being struck.
"I'm fine," I said, but it came out softer than I meant it to.
His eyes narrowed just slightly.
"Fine," he repeated, in the tone of a man who did not believe me for a second.
"I can still stand, can't I?"
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Barely.
"That has never stopped you from being reckless."
Carl made a strangled sound.
Justin looked like he was trying very hard not to react at all.
Heat rose up my neck.
I folded my arms tighter. "Is this your version of concern?"
"It's my version of honesty."
"That sounds worse."
For a second-just one-something almost amused flickered in Damian's eyes.
And I hated the way it made my chest tighten.
Because moments like this were dangerous.
Not because he frightened me.
Because he didn't.
Because he made me feel... seen.
And that was worse.
Eventually, Carl and Justin dragged us all back to the table.
Mostly because Carl threatened to "personally collapse from stress" if we didn't count what we'd lost and what we'd salvaged.
Amelia and Sydney still hadn't returned.
That sat wrong in the room.
Heavy.
Unsettling.
Amelia's absence made the hideout feel hollow.
Sydney's made it feel quiet in a way I hated.
I took my place at the table and tried not to think about the hidden weight beneath the floorboard in my room upstairs.
The ruby.
A red fire no one else knew I'd kept.
A fortune no one else knew I'd stolen for myself.
It was wrapped in cloth, hidden beneath the loose plank under my bed in the tiny room above us. Tucked away where no one would look unless they already suspected.
No one could suspect.
Not Amelia.
Not Sydney.
And definitely not Damian.
Because if they found out I had kept it-kept it from all of them, after years of sharing everything, splitting every take, surviving together-
I wasn't sure what I'd lose first.
The ruby.
Or the only family I had left.
Carl pointed at the maps, already reliving the disaster. "The east corridor should've been clear."
"It was clear," Justin said. "Until someone tripped the serving cart."
Carl looked offended. "I was creating confusion."
"You were creating noise."
"I was improvising."
"You were screaming."
"I was committed!"
I rubbed at my temple.
Across the table, Damian said nothing.
He rarely needed to.
He sat with one arm draped over the chair beside him, listening in that unnervingly calm way of his that always made the others straighten without realizing it.
People mistook his quiet for softness.
They were wrong.
Damian wasn't loud.
He was controlled.
There was a difference.
Justin looked at me again. "You still haven't explained where you went."
My pulse skipped.
I leaned back in my chair, forcing ease into my posture.
"I went after Sydney."
That much was true.
"At first."
Carl frowned.
Justin crossed his arms.
I shrugged. "We got separated in the crowd. I lost them. By the time I circled back, guards were everywhere, so I had to take the long way out."
Not a lie.
Not the whole truth.
Justin still looked suspicious.
Carl looked unconvinced.
And before either of them could push-
"Enough."
Damian's voice was quiet.
But it cut through the room like a blade.
Both of them shut up instantly.
He didn't look at them.
He looked at me.
"We all made it out," he said. "That matters more than assigning blame."
Carl opened his mouth.
Then thought better of it.
Justin exhaled sharply and looked away.
And just like that, the argument ended.
Because Damian had ended it.
For me.
A strange mix of gratitude and guilt twisted low in my stomach.
He caught me staring.
Held my gaze.
And for one impossible moment, the rest of the room seemed to blur.
"Right," Carl muttered. "Well. That was terrifyingly effective."
Justin snorted.
I glared at both of them.
Damian looked entirely unbothered.
Which somehow made everything worse.
Later, when the arguing had thinned into muttered complaints and the others scattered to their corners of the hideout, I slipped upstairs under the excuse of checking the rooms.
No one stopped me.
Though I could feel Damian's eyes on my back.
He always noticed when I left.
The staircase groaned beneath my boots as I climbed.
The upper floor of the print shop had once been offices. Now it was little more than patched walls, narrow rooms, and old furniture we'd salvaged from alleyways and abandoned houses.
Mine was the second door on the left.
A narrow bed.
A cracked washbasin.
One small window.
One loose floorboard.
I shut the door softly behind me and dropped to a crouch beside the bed, fingers already reaching beneath the frame.
The plank lifted with practiced ease.
There it was.
Wrapped in faded cloth.
Hidden in shadow.
Waiting.
I pulled it free slowly.
Even in the dim moonlight, the ruby glowed like it had swallowed fire.
For a moment, I just stared at it.
Then I unwrapped it fully.
Red light spilled across my hands.
Beautiful.
Cold.
Heavy.
A jewel like this didn't belong in hands like mine.
Not according to men like my father.
Not according to the world that had already decided what I was worth before I was old enough to argue.
I curled my fingers around it.
If I sold it carefully-through the right channels, to the right buyer, far enough from the capital-
It could clear the debt.
Every last coin.
Enough to break the promise my father had made when he sold me off like an item on a ledger.
My mother had already been dead by then.
And grief had made our home smaller.
Quieter.
Colder.
My father drank more after she died. Gambled more. Lost more.
Until one day, he stood in the doorway with papers in his hand and eyes that would not meet mine.
A loan.
A payment.
A daughter.
I still remembered the silence after he told me.
The way the world shifted under my feet.
The way I realized I no longer belonged to myself.
I pressed the edge of the ruby harder into my palm.
It bit just enough to hurt.
Freedom, I reminded myself.
That was all this was.
Freedom.
A knock sounded at the door.
I nearly dropped it.
"Avary?"
Damian.
Panic flashed hot through me.
I wrapped the ruby in the cloth and shoved it back beneath the floorboard so fast I nearly crushed my own fingers. The plank slid into place just as another knock sounded.
"You're hurt."
"I'm fine," I called back.
A pause.
Then, maddeningly calm-
"You favor your left side when you lie."
I glared at the door.
Show-off.
I stood, smoothed my shirt, forced my breathing steady, and opened the door just enough to slip into the hallway, blocking the room behind me.
Damian stood there, one shoulder against the wall opposite mine, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a small metal tin in one hand.
My stomach dropped.
"Ointment," he said.
I looked at the tin.
Then at him.
Then back at the tin.
"You came upstairs to bully me with medicine?"
His mouth twitched.
"You're limping."
"I am not."
"You are."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Because I absolutely was.
And I hated that he knew it.
The hallway suddenly felt too narrow.
Too quiet.
Too full of history.
"I'm fine," I said again, softer this time.
His gaze searched my face.
"Avary."
The way he said my name should have been illegal.
Low.
Steady.
Worried.
Too gentle for a man like him.
He stepped closer.
Not enough to crowd me.
Just enough to make my pulse trip.
"Let me see."
"It's a bruise, Damian. Not a mortal wound."
"That isn't what I asked."
I stared at him.
At the patience in his face.
At the infuriating tenderness.
At the way he always seemed to look at me like I was something worth protecting.
And the worst part?
He always had.
Even when we were younger.
Even after my father handed me over like payment.
Damian had never looked at me with pity.
Never once.
Only anger-at the situation.
At the men who made it happen.
And something quieter.
Something I'd spent years pretending not to see.
I looked away first.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
With a sigh I hated for how fond it sounded, I stepped aside and let him into the room.
He closed the door behind him.
Not locking it.
Never locking it.
Just shutting out the cold.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
He crouched in front of me, setting the tin beside him. His fingers were careful as he lifted the hem of my shirt just enough to reveal the bruise blooming along my side.
His jaw tightened.
"Who did this?"
The question came out low.
Controlled.
Dangerously so.
My breath caught.
For one wild second, I thought of the manor.
Of gloved hands catching me in the dark.
Of a stranger too close.
Of golden eyes and a reckless grin.
My skin heated.
Damian noticed.
And misread it.
His expression darkened.
"Avary."
"It was nothing."
"Nothing does not leave a bruise like this."
"It was a doorframe."
He gave me a flat look.
I lifted my chin.
"A very aggressive doorframe," he said.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
The sound surprised both of us.
His expression softened.
"There you are," he murmured.
The words hit harder than they should have.
I went still.
So did he.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
His hand still rested lightly against my side, warm even through the thin fabric.
My breath caught.
He seemed to realize it at the same time I did.
His hand withdrew.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
The air in the room changed.
Thicker.
Heavier.
More dangerous than any heist.
"Damian..." I started, not even sure what I meant to say.
He looked up at me from where he knelt, and something in his face nearly undid me.
Not anger.
Not expectation.
Hope.
That was worse.
Always worse.
"I don't need your gratitude," he said quietly.
I frowned. "What?"
"For tonight. For ending the argument. For any of it."
My throat tightened.
"I wasn't-"
"I know."
His eyes held mine.
"I only want the truth."
My heart stuttered.
"About what?"
And there it was.
The question we had spent years circling without ever touching.
About the future.
About the promise.
About the marriage waiting like a noose dressed in silk.
About whether I saw him as a man-
Or a consequence.
Damian rose slowly to his feet.
He looked taller in the moonlight.
Sharper.
And somehow, more vulnerable.
"I've spent years wondering," he said, voice low, "if when you look at me, you see me..."
His next words were barely above a whisper.
"Or just the debt your father left behind."
My breath left me.
He had never said it.
Not once.
Not out loud.
Not in all the years between papers and promises and quiet, careful devotion.
The room tilted.
Because I knew what answer he wanted.
And I knew the truth was far too tangled to survive being spoken plainly.
"Damian..."
His smile was small.
Sad.
Gone almost as soon as it appeared.
"Forget it."
"Don't."
He stilled.
I stood too quickly, the bruise pulling hard enough to make me wince.
His hand was there instantly,
steadying my elbow.
Always there.
Always.
"I don't think of you as a debt," I said, and this part-at least-was true. "Never that."
His fingers tightened slightly.
Hope again.
God.
"I just..." I swallowed. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel when everyone else decided my future before I could."
The words landed between us like shattered glass.
Honest.
Not all of it.
But enough.
Pain flickered across his face before he buried it.
"I never wanted to be another cage."
I shut my eyes.
And that was the problem, wasn't it?
He wasn't cruel.
He wasn't heartless.
He wasn't the one who built the bars.
But he was still standing inside them with me, asking me to stay.
When I opened my eyes, he was watching me like I might disappear.
Maybe part of me already had.
"I know," I whispered.
He let go of my arm.
The loss of warmth felt immediate.
He turned toward the window, silent for a long moment.
Then, so quietly I almost missed it-
"If I asked you to run... would you?"
I froze.
The question struck deep.
Not because of what he meant.
But because I already had a plan to do exactly that.
One he knew nothing about.
One hidden beneath my floor.
My mouth went dry.
"Damian..."
His jaw tightened.
Then he shook his head once, like he regretted letting the thought escape.
"You don't have to answer."
But I did.
I just couldn't.
Because if I said yes, I would break him.
And if I said no, I would break myself.
He stepped back toward the door.
The distance felt enormous.
"I should go."
I wanted to stop him.
I wanted to let him leave.
I wanted too many things all at once.
So instead, I said the safest, cruelest thing.
"Thank you."
He smiled again.
This time it hurt to look at.
"For the ointment," I added quickly, hating myself.
Something in his expression shuttered.
Not fully.
Just enough.
"Of course."
He opened the door.
Paused without turning.
And said, very softly-
"I would have chosen you without the debt."
Then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him with a sound so gentle it might as well have been mercy.
I stood there for a long time after.
Too long.
Staring at the empty space he'd left behind.
My side still aching.
My chest aching worse.
The room felt smaller somehow.
The future smaller still.
Slowly, I sank back onto the bed and pressed both hands over my face.
Damian's touch still lingered on my skin.
His words lingered more.
I would have chosen you without the debt.
A cruel thing for a good man to say to a girl already drowning.
Because somewhere beneath the guilt, beneath the fear, beneath the suffocating weight of promises and plans-
There was affection.
Real affection.
Maybe even the beginnings of something that could have become love in another life.
In another world.
In a life where choice came before duty.
But this wasn't that life.
And I wasn't that girl.
After a long moment, I bent once more and pried up the floorboard.
The ruby caught the moonlight like spilled blood.
I held it in both hands.
Heavy.
Red.
Mine.
Freedom, if I was brave enough to take it.
Betrayal, if anyone discovered the truth.
And somehow, as I stared into its burning heart, another face rose in my mind-
Golden eyes lit with amusement.
A reckless grin.
A stranger in the dark who had looked at me like I was a challenge instead of a burden.
My breath caught.
I hated that too.
Damian offered safety.
The ruby offered escape.
And somewhere in the shadows of my memory-
the stranger offered something far more dangerous.
Want.
I wrapped the ruby again with shaking hands.
And for the first time since the heist, I understood with perfect, terrible clarity-