Ethan couldn't help but touch the compass.

It bit at his hand like it was a living thing, thrumming softly with each spasmodic jerk of his heart. He'd attempted to shove it into his drawer and jam it behind his schoolbooks and even hide it underneath his pillow. But if it was not against his skin, then panic scraped its way up his throat.

The engraved 13 had begun to blur beneath the constant scrape of his thumb. The more he rubbed it, the more it seemed to grow—like the number itself was branded into him. A countdown. A threat. A promise.

Don’t tell her.

The order had been whispered in his ear by that shadowy man in the subway. Cold, raspy, interwoven with the type of threat that lingered in your chest even after you left his presence.

And once he went up the narrow stairs to the apartment, that voice was right behind him step for step.

There was a stench of bleach and wet carpet in the corridor of this building. Lighting above hummed and fluttered as if it were blinking. It stretched shadows long across walls and whispered at corners of his sight.

Bella was waiting. Naturally, she was. She was always waiting–half guardian, half captive to her own foreboding. She was sitting primly on the couch's edge, blanket bunched around her shoulders, phone gripped so tightly her knuckles were white.

They darted a glance at him the instant he entered. Relief flashed across her features for a fleeting instant before concern rose again like a tide.

You're late," she stated in a too even, too matter-of-fact tone.

Ethan shrugged, willing his shoulders to loosen up, his voice to fall into step. "Train ran slow."

She looked at him, sharp and scrutinizing, like she could strip his words naked and uncover the lie underneath. Her lips fell open, skepticism trembling in the air between them. "You okay?"

For an instant, he came close to breaking. He was oppressed by the secret until he thought his lungs would collapse. He longed to be able to tell her. He longed to be able to bury his face against her shoulder and spill out the whole—the man, the voice, the compass, which was slowly killing him.

But he did see it: circles under her eyes, stiffness in her shoulders, a weariness mapped out in every wrinkle on her face. She'd been holding him together for years, distorting herself out of shape to keep him whole. He could not burden these shoulders.

"Yes," he replied, flashing a crooked smile. "Fine."

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe him. But she didn’t push. Not tonight.

As he strode past her into his own room, the compass smoldered hot against his side, branding him with guilt.

Bella stood frozen long after Ethan went down the passageway.

Something in him had changed. A stiffness, a shadow. He was keeping back something—as she could tell. She'd always known how to read him, her little brother who once stuck to her side like a second heartbeat. But tonight he'd stared at her like a stranger.

She stared at the still-warmed phone on the table. She received another message while waiting. She hadn't read it. Unable to. But the vibration against the wooden table was a time bomb.

And then she made her fingers move. The screen came on, and her gut was in knots.

It was Ethan.

Not a crowd shot, not a fuzzy image of a stranger. Her whole world was stepping off the subway platform, his head down as if he already knew eyes were upon him. And behind him, in the background of the frame, was the same man in the cap. Always near. Always watching.

Bella's breath stalled.

She scrolled down. Another picture came into view. This was Ethan at the front door of their building, juggling his keys. He was across the street, but his face was hidden. However, a curve was apparent in his mouth—a smile.

Her vision swam.

It buzzed once more, another message arriving below the photos.

You can't keep him safe forever.

Bella's heart sprang into her throat. Her own hands were shaking too violently to hold onto the phone.

She was tempted to scream. She was tempted to run. But most of all, she was tempted to stomp on the phone with her heel and shatter it to bits so words, photographs would be gone.

They wouldn't, though. It was a threat. It was a danger within them already.

She covered her eyes, holding her fists to her temples. She had to call Alex. She didn't want to think about it—if it made her feel weak, defenseless—it was the first name in her mind. He had power, influence, a reach beyond that which she could imagine. He could bring a stop to this.

And then the idea of turning her life over to him, becoming still another pawn in his empire—it gave her chest pain with rage.

She did not wish to require him.

She did, though.

Alex Moretti had invested years in creating a fortress of control around him. Every transaction, every contract, every brilliant acquisition—cleverly worked out, flawlessly executed. He was labeled ruthless because others could not tolerate exactness honed to a knife.

But now, behind glass screens in his penthouse office suite, his control seemed tenuous, fragile.

His security chief was standing across from him, shifting in front of Alex. "Same number that sent pics." "We can't trace it—burner phone. Likely changing out every few hours. But…"

"But what?" Alex's voice was a whipcrack.

The man halted. "We extracted something out of the metadata. A code. '13."

It hit him like a blow to Alex's chest.

He stood up from behind the desk and went to the window that looked out at the sparkling city. From this height, everything was small and controllable. But that number pulled him back—back to a period he'd devoted a lifetime to burying. His father's closed drawers. Stale files marked confidential, he was never permitted to read. Discussions that ceased upon his entry into a room.

"Find it," he stated, his voice low, menacing. "I don't care how many doors need to be broken down. Find anything associated with that code."

"Yes, sir."

The man withdrew, and Alex was left alone in the silence.

Alex pressed his hands against the glass. His own face stared back at him, stiff and immobile, but for the first time in some time, a fissure.

Bella.

The idea slipped past while he was unable to prevent it.

It wasn't about the empire. It wasn't about having his name clean or his empire intact. It was about her—the girl who'd gazed at him with defiance in her eyes even though she was surrounded, who disobeyed him at every turn but was still in his mind long after she was gone.

And Ethan. That face of a boy in these pictures--wide-eyed, uncovered--it gnawed at him in a way that nothing else could.

Alex didn't like vulnerability. But he detested losing them even more.

Bella did not wish to be in his car. She was.

The leather seat enveloped her in silence, engine hum replacing words where words belonged. Outside, the city streamed by—the neon signs, blurred headlights, rain-wetted pavement mirroring broken light.

Alex drove with equal attention, giving to everything else, hand on the wheel, his profile cut out of shadow.

You should have informed me about the messages earlier," he finally stated. His tone was relaxed, but underneath went a current of steel.

Bella stiffened. "And then what? Spin my world around so that you can control it? You don't own me."

His jaw ticked. “This isn’t about you.”

"Do not dare—

"All about Ethan." His words cut her own like a blade. "Keeping him alive."

The words hit her like a hammer, shattering the breath out of her. She spun around tightly, anger and terror commingling. "Don't speak like I don't know that. He's my brother. My responsibility. I've managed to keep him alive this long without you."

Silence stretched out thick and tensile. The cadence of the windshield wipers occupied the emptiness.

At last Alex stirred again, this time softly, almost unwillingly. "I know. That's why I came."

Bella stiffened.

There was an element in his voice, an element he hadn't meant to expose. She gazed off to the side. His gaze stayed ahead, but the mask had broken. And behind the steel and control was a flash of sincerity, maybe even vulnerability.

It bothered her more than any threats he could make.

Her chest constricted. Whether she wanted it or not, her pulse leapt, her body treacherously against her will. But she pressed her teeth down hard upon it, making herself look away. She couldn't allow herself to feel. Now.

It smelled of oil and rust.

Miranda was sitting in a velvet armchair and looked ridiculously regal against chipped concrete walls. A glass went round slowly in her hand, staining her lips red like blood.

Standing facing her, he bowed his head and placed his hands loosely behind his back.

You almost did," Miranda whispered.

He nodded once. "The boy's scared. He will not speak to her.".

Miranda’s lips curved in satisfaction. Bella’s brother was the crack in her armor. The trembling string that, if plucked just right, would unravel everything.

"Good," Miranda stated, her tone as silky smooth as ever. "Keep pushing. Make him feel persecuted. Make her feel powerless. The harder she grips, the harder she will fall."

She lifted her glass, and the wine reflected the faint illumination. "And when it is appropriate to do so, we'll break both."

That night, he was lying awake, staring at the ceiling. The compass was sitting on the pillow beside him, colder metal against his skin. He traced his finger around the number again and again, still unwilling to let it go.

His shadows within his room seemed darker than they normally were, closing in around him. He was positive he could hear the rasping man's voice out in the blackness. And while he hoped he could convince himself that Bella would make it right, or that Alex's unlimited finances and influence would wipe it out, an empty truth resided in his chest. This wasn’t going away. Not until an injury was inflicted. And privately, his worst nightmare was that he might be among them.