POV: Phoebe Thorne (First Person)
There are moments when reality fractures — when fear, anger, and desire collide so hard you can't tell which is which anymore.
This was one of them.
The world tilted sideways the second Grim said it.
"Your father intercepted the file."
The air vanished from my lungs. My vision tunneled. The villa, once my cage, suddenly felt like a coffin.
"What do you mean intercepted?" I asked, though my voice didn't sound like mine. "How could he even know about it? That upload was encrypted. It was—"
"Tracked," Grim finished flatly. "Your father's surveillance unit has higher-grade tech than you think. Someone inside the journalist's office tipped them off."
"Someone?" My laugh came out sharp and hysterical. "Or Jackson?"
Grim's silence was answer enough.
I turned, pacing. "Of course. Of course he'd feed my father the evidence. He's probably sitting in some private jet right now, drinking to his own genius while my life burns in headlines again!"
Grim stood perfectly still. Watching. Calculating.
"You need to calm down," he said, too quietly.
I spun on him. "Don't you dare tell me to calm down."
His jaw flexed. "Panicking won't help."
"Neither will your usual emotional constipation!"
The words flew before I could stop them. He blinked — once, slow — and the muscle in his cheek ticked. A dangerous tell.
"Phoebe," he said, his tone a warning.
"Killian," I countered, fire igniting behind my ribs. "Don't start with me. Not after all the secrets. Not after you let me believe that file was safe. That you were safe!"
He moved before I did.
In two strides, he had me cornered against the marble counter. His hand braced beside my head, caging me in. Not roughly. But with enough force that I felt the command in it.
"I let you believe what you needed to survive," he said, low and dark. "You think I enjoyed it? Watching you bleed over things I can't fix?"
"You could've trusted me," I whispered.
His gaze softened — for a second. "I do."
"Then show it."
Something flickered in his eyes. Something I hadn't seen since that night on the balcony — the night before everything fell apart.
He stepped back. "Pack a bag. Now."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"We're leaving."
"What? Where?"
"Safehouse Protocol. Panic Room Sequence."
"Wait, you're joking, right?" My voice pitched. "You want me to hide again?"
He didn't answer.
"You think running away will fix this?" I asked, shoving his chest. "You think locking me in another steel vault will somehow erase the chaos my father unleashed?"
He caught my wrist mid-swing. His grip was iron.
"I think keeping you alive matters more than your pride," he said evenly. "Now move."
The panic room wasn't what most people imagined — no steel box or flickering lights. It was a buried suite beneath the villa, disguised behind a false wine cellar. Cold, soundproof, and suffocatingly intimate.
The elevator lowered us in silence.
When the doors opened, the air felt heavier. Like it had been waiting for this moment. For us.
Grim entered first, scanning the corners with his gun drawn. Old habits. Then he holstered it and turned to me. "You have two hours before the power grid resets topside. No signal down here."
"Perfect," I muttered. "Trapped in a bunker with my favorite control freak."
He almost smiled. Almost.
"Stay put," he ordered. "I'll sweep the perimeter."
"You already did that."
"Do it again."
"Overachiever."
He shot me a look that said he was this close to handcuffing me to the furniture. Then he disappeared into the next room.
I sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the floor. My heartbeat echoed in my ears. Everything — my father, Jackson, the tapes — spun like broken glass in my mind.
And underneath it all, one truth pulsed louder than the rest.
I trusted Grim.
Even when I shouldn't.
Especially when I shouldn't.
When he came back ten minutes later, his expression had shifted. The hardened soldier mask was cracked. Something else bled through — exhaustion, maybe. Or something dangerously close to guilt.
"All clear," he said, voice rougher than before.
"Great. So what now?" I asked. "We hide? Wait for my father's next move? Pretend this isn't the definition of insanity?"
He ran a hand through his hair. "We wait until I can make contact with my intel channel."
I laughed dryly. "You mean your ex-assassin buddies?"
"Something like that."
"Fantastic. Should I knit while we wait?"
He looked up. "Phoebe."
I froze.
He never said my name like that — softly, without armor. It felt like something inside me cracked open.
I didn't move when he came closer.
"You did what you had to," he said quietly. "With Jackson. With the upload. Don't question that."
I looked up, searching his face for something solid, something real. "You think I don't? I've spent every minute since wondering if I made everything worse. If I handed my father the weapon he needed."
Grim shook his head. "You outplayed Jackson. That matters."
"I don't want to play anymore," I whispered.
"Then stop letting them pull the strings."
"Easy for you to say. You don't have bloodline politics stapled to your skin."
"Maybe not," he murmured, stepping closer, "but I know what it's like to be owned."
The words hit like thunder.
I swallowed hard. "And now?"
He hesitated. "Now I protect what's mine."
I didn't breathe.
My pulse stuttered.
And before I could decide whether he meant me, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then the generator kicked in with a low hum.
I exhaled shakily. "That's comforting."
"Backup power," he muttered, checking the panel. "System reset's ahead of schedule."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we're not alone."
He moved fast — gun drawn, scanning. I followed, adrenaline cutting through my fear. The panic room wasn't big — one main space, a side storage chamber, and the old surveillance hub.
He checked the hub first.
The screens flickered to life — external feeds from the villa above. One of them caught motion. A shadow moving near the entryway.
Jackson.
Of course.
My pulse pounded. "How did he—"
"Encrypted override," Grim said tightly. "He must've used your father's clearance."
"He's here?"
"Not for long."
Grim turned, heading for the elevator. I grabbed his arm. "You can't go up there."
"I can handle him."
"That's not the point!"
His gaze locked on mine. "Then what is?"
"That you don't get to die for me," I said fiercely. "Not again."
The word again slipped out before I could catch it.
His eyes darkened. "Phoebe—"
"I'm not losing you, Killian."
Silence.
Thick.
Electrified.
He stepped closer, closing the inch between us. My back hit the cold steel wall. His breath ghosted over my lips. And for the first time since this nightmare began, I felt something other than fear.
He thought I was trembling from adrenaline.
But it was him.
It had always been him.
"Phoebe," he said softly, almost warning me. "Don't."
I looked up at him — at the man who'd ruined and rebuilt me in equal measure — and I realized I was done waiting for permission to want him.
I rose on my toes.
And kissed him.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't careful.
It was everything I'd been holding back — fury, desire, grief — colliding in one shattering moment. He went still for half a second, then his restraint broke. His hand found the back of my neck, pulling me closer, deeper, like he'd been waiting for me to cross that line so he could finally stop pretending.
The world narrowed to heat and heartbeat.
The metallic taste of adrenaline. The scent of rain still on his shirt. The rough scrape of his stubble when he angled my face upward.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wild. "You shouldn't have done that."
"Then stop me," I breathed.
He didn't.
Instead, he kissed me again.
Slower this time. Rougher. Real.
Every wall he'd built between us cracked — and for a moment, I forgot we were hiding underground, hunted by ghosts, betrayed by blood.
All I knew was this:
If I was going to burn, I'd rather do it in his arms.
The power flickered again.
Grim broke the kiss, cursing under his breath. "We need to move."
"Where?"
"Secondary exit."
We gathered what little gear we had — two guns, a duffel, and the last remnants of my sanity — and moved toward the escape hatch.
That's when we heard it.
A metallic ping from above.
Then another.
A delayed echo.
Grim's hand went to his holster instantly.
He grabbed me, pulling me behind the stairwell. His eyes scanned the ceiling vents.
Another ping. Louder this time. Closer.
I whispered, "What is that?"
He didn't answer.
Then a faint red beam cut through the darkness — landing on the steel door we'd just come through.
A targeting laser.
My blood turned to ice.
"Sniper," Grim hissed. "They found us."
"How? We're underground!"
"Ventilation access."
A click echoed.
Followed by the cold whine of metal.
He shoved me behind a crate, voice sharp. "Stay down!"
"Killian—"
He turned, eyes fierce. "Stay down, Phoebe!"
Then the door exploded inward.
The world went white.
Smoke.
Noise.
Chaos.
Through the haze, I saw Grim move like a shadow — fluid, deadly, unyielding. Two shots. Three. A curse in another language. Then silence.
I crawled out from cover, coughing.
The air was thick with smoke. The alarms screamed. The panic room's reinforced door now hung half-open, a hole blown clean through.
Grim stood in the middle of it all, gun smoking, chest heaving.
"Killian!" I gasped, running to him. "Are you—"
He cut me off, grabbing my face between his hands. His thumb brushed a cut on my cheek, his eyes burning into mine.
"Phoebe," he rasped, "we're out of time."
"What—"
"Your father just declared you missing."
I froze.
"He's mobilized a federal retrieval order," he continued. "We're not just fugitives anymore."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, pulling me toward the exit, "if they find us now…"
His voice dropped, rough and low.
"They'll shoot to kill."
TO BE CONTINUED.