The air in the sub-levels was a different world from the scented luxury of the penthouse. It was heavy, damp, and tasted of stale recycled oxygen. As the elevator doors slid open at the bottom of the shaft, Elara felt the transition in her very marrow. She was no longer the pampered Queen; she was the Nightingale again, moving through the shadows with a purpose that Julian's kisses couldn't dull.
She carried a silver tray—a ridiculous, ornate thing piled with food David wouldn't have the stomach to eat. Behind her, the heavy iron door of the "Special Detention" wing groaned open. Julian had kept his word. The guards stayed in the corridor, their faces obscured by tactical helmets, their rifles held at low ready.
David was sitting in the corner of the small, concrete room. He looked thinner, his skin the color of parchment, but his eyes were sharp. When he saw Elara, he didn't move. He waited until the door hissed shut and the lock engaged.
"Did he send you to check the inventory?" David asked, his voice a dry rasp.
"He sent me because I begged him to," Elara whispered, setting the tray on the low cot. She immediately began checking the corners of the room for cameras. She found three—two in the ceiling, one near the vent. She knew Julian was watching from the security hub, his eyes tracing her every movement.
She sat on the cot and took David's hand. She knew she had to be careful. Every word, every gesture, was for Julian's benefit.
"I'm so sorry, David," she said, her voice loud enough for the mics. She squeezed his hand—a rhythmic, coded pressure they had used as children. Three taps. Wait. Two taps."I'm coming back for you."
"Sorry doesn't fix a cage, Elara," David replied, playing his part with a bitter brilliance. "You've chosen your side. You're wearing his jewels while I'm wearing his bruises."
Elara leaned in, pulling David into a hug. It looked like a sister comforting her broken brother. In reality, she was whispering into his ear, her voice a ghost of a sound. "The Ghost Families hit the shipyard at midnight. Julian will be gone. When the power flickers, use the emergency override I put in the drive. The code is our mother's birthday."
David stiffened, then slowly nodded, burying his face in her shoulder. "I hate you," he said loudly, for the microphones. "I hate what he's turned you into."
When Elara returned to the penthouse, Julian was waiting in the war room. He looked at her through the monitors, his expression a mix of triumph and lingering suspicion. He had seen the hug; he had heard the "I hate you." It fed his ego to think that Elara was his only ally, even if she was a reluctant one.
"You look tired, Nightingale," Julian said, walking over to her and wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. He pressed his face into her hair, inhaling deeply. "Was it enough? Do you see now that he is safer here than with the Bureau?"
"He's broken, Julian," she said, leaning her head back against his shoulder. "You've won. He has no fight left."
"Good." Julian turned her around, his eyes flashing with a sudden, dark urgency. "Because I have to go. Bianca was right—the Ghost Families are mobilizing. They think I'm distracted. They think I've grown soft because of you."
He kissed her then—a hard, possessive brand of a kiss. "Stay in the suite. I've doubled the guards at your door. When I get back, we finish this. No more secrets. No more brother. Just us."
As he strode out of the room, the heavy doors locking behind him, Elara stood in the center of the dark library. She didn't cry. She didn't tremble. She walked to the window and watched his motorcade vanish into the Chicago rain.
The clock began to tick toward midnight.