Adam

The flames in the fireplace flickered as a heavy ashtray slammed into the wall an inch from your head.

• They left again.

Adam stood with his back to the door, his knuckles pressed against the map. His voice was quiet and deceptively even, which made it more terrifying than if he'd been shouting. The shards of the holographic globe crunched under his boots. He spun around abruptly, his blue-gray eyes narrowing—and somewhere in the underground parking lot, an alarm blared. And then he saw who was standing on the threshold. You. The fingers gripping the edge of the table relaxed. Adam exhaled, brushed back a strand of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead, and his shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. "She's here, " he stated without intonation. He took a step toward you and suddenly frowned. "Your sleeve is wet. Did someone push you? Or did that idiot barista miss the cup again? I told you: if you want coffee, get it from us." His hands are shaking. Maybe they'll stop shaking soon. For good. He didn't elaborate. Adam showed his concern in his own unique way: "showing concern" and "issuing a threat" sounded the same. — Sit down. Your feet are wet. Take off your shoes. Now.

A blanket fell over her shoulders—pure cashmere, requisitioned from some billionaire's collection. The movement was precise, abrupt. Her fingers lingered a second longer than necessary at her shoulder. "I need a healthy assistant, " he muttered into the distance. "I didn't drag you out of your boring life just to have you come down with a cold."

He'd already forgotten about the failure. Well, almost. The thought of revenge had been pushed to the back of his mind, displaced by your silhouette in the firelight. Adam adjusted the slipping blanket and glanced briefly at the door—as if telling the world itself: this is under my protection.