Page 78 of Blades Out
The words came out rough. Almost angry.
My chest constricted. "Then why do you look like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're furious."
His jaw locked tighter. A muscle jumped near his temple. When he finally spoke, his voice dropped lower—controlled but barely. "I'm not angry at you."
But the tension radiating off him said otherwise. I took an instinctive step back, bumped the wall behind me. My pulse kicked up again, different than before. Not fear exactly. Something else I didn't want to examine.
"Then what?" I whispered.
His eyes found mine. Held. And for the first time since he'd walked in, I saw past the walls he kept so carefully in place. Saw the guilt.
"You need to quit the café."
The words landed flat. No emotion. No explanation.
I went still. My fingers stopped twisting together. My breath caught halfway up my throat and stuck there. "What?"
He didn't repeat himself. Just stood in the middle of my apartment—too tall, too tense, radiating something that felt like barely controlled panic even though his face stayed blank.
Confusion hit first. Then disbelief. Then something sharper that burned behind my ribs.
"Did I—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard and tried again. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
"Are you firing me?"
"I can't fire you. I'm not your boss."
The distinction felt meaningless. Heat flooded my face, crawled down my neck. My hands curled into fists at my sides.
"Is this about the rookie? Because I didn't?—"
"It's not about him."
"Then what?" The question came out louder than I meant. Desperate. "I need this job. You know I need this job. I can't just?—"
"You're not safe there."
The air punched out of my lungs.
He said it so calmly. Like he was stating a fact instead of detonating my entire world. His eyes never left mine—dark, unreadable, but underneath the stone mask something wild lurked. Something I'd never seen before.
Fear.
Not of me. For me.
My throat closed. "What are you talking about?"
"Someone's watching you."
The room tilted. The walls pressed closer. I grabbed the edge of the counter to steady myself, fingernails scraping cheap laminate.
"You're wrong." But my voice shook. "You have to be wrong."
