Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
My hand hovers near the small of her back without quite touching. I hear her breath catch because of this, but I tell myself to ignore this.
Outside, the morning has warmed slightly, the coastal fog burning off to reveal blue sky.
"What about...my father?" she asks jerkily all of a sudden. "The real one. What do you know of him?"
"He was not a good man." I glance at her, saying grimly, "Neither am I."
"Yet you're here to protect me—-"
"Because blood debts are always paid in our world. And protecting you simply means this is not a rule that I care to break."
She slowly shakes her head. "You're not as evil as you think. And more redeemable than you let yourself believe."
The naivety of her assessment should irritate me. Instead, I find it oddly warming, like sunlight on skin long kept in shadow. Dangerous, that warmth. Comfort leads to complacency, and complacency leads to death in my world.
When we reach her shop, a customer is waiting outside. Kleah unlocks the door with an apologetic smile, slipping seamlessly into her role as shopkeeper. I stay back, observing her interaction with the customer—an older gentleman seeking a custom seal for his daughter's wedding.
She's good with people—attentive, genuine, her enthusiasm for her craft evident in every gesture as she shows him sample designs. The interaction is so normal, so far removed from the shadow world I inhabit, that for a moment I can almost forget why I'm here.
Almost.
My phone vibrates with an encrypted message. Security update from my team—they've identified surveillance on Kleah's shop. Not immediate threat level, but concerning. Valentina's people, most likely, assessing the situation before making a move.
Time is shorter than I'd hoped.
When the customer leaves with a promise to return tomorrow, I move to the counter where Kleah is sketching design options.
"We need to talk," I say without preamble.
She looks up, the shift in my tone registering immediately. "What's wrong?"
"Not here." I glance toward the windows, the street beyond. "Is there somewhere private?"
She hesitates only briefly before nodding toward the back room. "Through here."
The workspace is small but organized—a desk with specialized tools, shelves of wax in various colors, a small electric burner for melting. The scent of beeswax and cedar hangs in the air, warm and comforting.
"There's surveillance on your shop," I tell her, keeping my voice low. "Nothing immediate, but we need to move more quickly than I anticipated."
Fear flashes across her face, quickly controlled. "What does that mean?"
"It means we leave today. I'll stay close, keep watch, and tomorrow we'll establish a more permanent security arrangement."
"What kind of arrangement?" Her knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of her desk.
I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal now. "We'll discuss options tonight. For now, focus on getting through the day as normally as possible. Don't let on that anything has changed."
To her credit, she nods, swallowing visibly but accepting the instruction without argument. "Okay."
"I'll be nearby, even when you don't see me," I assure her. "Just continue as you would on any normal day."
She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "I can do that."
I believe her. In the short time I've known Kleah Martell, I've seen a quiet resilience in her that many hardened criminals lack. A different sort of strength, but no less real.
For the rest of the day, I maintain my vigilance, sometimes visible in her shop as a "consultant," sometimes watching from carefully chosen positions outside. I identify three separate surveillance operatives—all Valentina's people, none immediate threat level, but all concerning.
Kleah performs admirably, maintaining her normal routine with customers, working on orders, even stopping for lunch at her usual time. The only signs of her awareness are the occasional glances toward where she knows I'm watching and the slight tension in her shoulders.
As closing time approaches, I send her a text—a number I had her program into her phone this morning.
Lock up normally. Walk to the bookstore as you usually would. I'll meet you inside.
She gives no indication of having received the message, but when she closes her shop, she follows the instructions precisely, strolling casually toward the bookstore three blocks down. I follow at a distance, watching for any tail.
The bookstore owner—an old friend who owes me several favors—nods as Kleah enters, then again as I follow a minute later. He leads us through the back room to a private exit that opens onto a side street where my car waits.
"You okay?" I ask as we drive away from her town, taking a circuitous route to ensure we're not followed.
"No," she answers honestly. "But I'm here."
The simple statement carries more weight than elaborate reassurances would have. She's chosen to follow me, to trust me, despite having every reason not to.
"Where are we going?" she asks as familiar roads give way to highway.
"A property I maintain for security purposes. We'll be safe there tonight."