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We are still administering those chemicals, in honesty, at a fraction of the dose, tapering her down a gentle gradient so her body doesn’t revolt against the sudden absence. But the woman in front of me is not the sedated ghost from the intake file. She is lit up with recovery, vivid and present and curious, and the relief I feel watching it is a sensation I do not have a tidy clinical word for.

I have spent my professional life as a connoisseur of damaged minds, and I have never been moved by a single one of them.

That is not cruelty; it is architecture. Somewhere very early I learned that feeling and function could not share the same house in a man who intended to survive, and I evicted the former with such thoroughness that most people who meet me assume the rooms were always empty.

They are wrong, as it happens.

The rooms were merely locked. And this woman—this impossible, lethal, recovering woman touching apples in a market square—has been picking the locks one at a time since the afternoon she sat in my office and refused to perform fear for me, and I have let her, which is the part that should alarm me far more than it does. I do not let people into rooms.

I am, against every protocol I ever wrote for myself, handing her the keys.

“Can I go?”

She turns to me with the flyer half-pulled from its tack, her mismatched eyes gone wide and hopeful in a way that briefly short-circuits my comprehension. I must look genuinely lost, because she huffs and jabs a finger at the small print along the bottom of the page.

Attendance requires authorization by a registered Alpha. Drop-off and collection mandatory.

I read it twice, and it takes real effort not to roll my eyes at the antique paternalism of the thing—a town that lets its residents browse markets and sip coffee unsupervised, but requires an Omega to obtain an Alpha’s signed permission to attend an exercise class.

Arch Hollow is, beneath its mossy charm, a place that quietly forgot which century it lives in, and the small print is a useful reminder of exactly what kind of cage we’ve borrowed. Pretty bars are bars.

It clarifies something for me, standing there with that flyer between us.

This place cannot be our forever.

It can be our now—our staging ground, our trap, the controlled board on which we draw out the man hunting her—but the day that’s settled, the day the threat is buried, we go. We disappear so thoroughly that no system, no institution, no surviving ex with a checkbook ever finds the four of us again. And we build her something real, somewhere unmonitored, where no flyer requires my signature for her to dance. That is the entire point of all of this, underneath the strategy.

A life worth living, for the woman who has become the axis the three of us now orbit.

I have already begun the architecture of it, in the private back rooms of my planning where I keep the things I do not yet say aloud.

New names, clean and unconnected to the wreckage of the old ones.

A country with no extradition arrangement and very good light.

The harbor Riot keeps describing to her like a bedtime story—I’ve looked into it, the brute, and irritatingly the harbor is sound; the wine is real; the new identities are obtainable for a man with my resources and Silas’s particular acquaintances.

What was a feverish fantasy whispered in a bathtub I have quietly been turning into a logistics problem, because that is what I do with the things the others only dream. I solve them.

And I find I want to solve this one more than I have wanted to solve anything in years, which is its own kind of diagnosis I decline to dwell on in a sunlit square.

“Yes,” I say. “If you want to go.”

“It’s Monday evening.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not… working?”

I blink, and study her, and understand the question a half-beat after she asks it—understand the careful, pre-emptive flinch buried inside it.

She isn’t asking my schedule. She’s pre-loading the disappointment. Building the exit before the letdown can arrive, so that when the Alpha inevitably has somewhere better to be, she’ll have already braced for it. Men have taught her, with great consistency, that enthusiasm is a debt that gets called in.

I find I want to locate every one of them and discuss the matter at length.

“I’ll come with you,” I tell her, and I make sure the words are flat and certain, the way I deliver facts I expect no argument on. “You’re my priority. I was only ever at Blackthorn on your behalf.”

“Hired,” she concludes, with a small wry twist of her mouth. “Yes.”