Chapter 6 The Address I Never Gave

• I don’t move.
• Not immediately.
• Even after the strand of hair slips free, I stay there, close enough to feel the warmth of Victor’s breath. Close enough to hear the quiet, controlled rhythm of his breathing over the rain drumming against the car.
• His gaze doesn’t leave my face.
• Neither does mine, though I know it should.
• The air between us feels fragile, stretched too tight, like one more second of this and something will snap.
• My pulse hammers so hard it almost hurts.
• Victor’s hand, still half lifted near my shoulder, lowers slowly, deliberately, as if he’s giving me time to pull away.
• I don’t.
• I don’t know what terrifies me more, that I want to stay, or that he seems to know it.
• His eyes drop to my mouth.
• My breath catches.
• And then the sky cracks open.
• A violent burst of thunder splits through the night, so loud the whole car seems to shudder with it.
• I flinch hard, every muscle in my body tensing at once.
• The moment breaks.
• Victor leans back into his seat, the movement smooth but unreadable. And suddenly there’s distance between us again. Not much. But enough to breathe.
• Enough to remind me who he is and who I am.
• I press my palms into my lap, forcing my fingers to stop trembling.
• Outside, rain lashes the windshield in silver sheets. The wipers drag back and forth, steady and mechanical, but they do nothing to settle the storm inside the car.
• Victor starts the engine.
• The soft growl of it fills the silence as he pulls away from the curb.
• For a few seconds, neither of us speaks.
• Streetlights blur across the glass. The city outside is distorted by rain, all colour and shadow and passing light. The car has become a tight, breathless cage, charged with intimacy. I don’t know how to survive this danger.
• I keep my eyes forward.
• “Are you always this nervous around thunderstorms?” Victor asks at last, his voice calm.
• I force myself to answer evenly. “Not always.” After a pause, I add, “Only when I’m startled.”
• His fingers tighten, just slightly, on the steering wheel.
• “Mm.”
• That single sound unsettles me more than a question would.
• He drives another block and then stops at a red light.
• The glow from the signal spills red across his face, sharpening every angle. He turns then, not fully, just enough that I feel the weight of his attention settle over me again.
• “No one gets that frightened over a few paperwork mistakes,” he says quietly.
• My stomach twists.
• “I said I was sorry.”
• “That isn’t what I’m talking about.”
• The light changes. He looks ahead and drives on.
• My heart begins to pound harder, slower, heavier.
• This is it.
• He knows.
• He’s circling it the way he always does. Never rushing, never striking before he’s certain.
• I wet my lips. “Then what are you talking about?”
• For a second, I think he won’t answer. Then he says, “I’m trying to understand you.”
• I stare at him.
• That was not the answer I expected.
• The rain keeps falling. The city keeps moving. But inside the car, everything narrows down to the sound of his voice and the quiet threat under it.
• Victor glances at me once, then back at the road.
• “You’re competent, but you make mistakes when you’re under pressure. You’re cautious, but not naturally dishonest. And every time I get close to something real, you retreat.”
• He says it like a diagnosis. Like a conclusion he’s been building for days.
• My mouth feels dry. “You’ve thought a lot about this.”
• “I think about anything that doesn’t add up.”
• The words settle into me like ice.
• I look down at my hands. “Are you interrogating me?”
• “No.” His tone remains maddeningly even. “Not yet.”
• A chill slides down my spine.
• He turns onto a quieter road, the buildings thinning, the noise of the city dimming around us. The rain seems louder here, striking the roof in relentless waves.
• Then, without warning, he asks, “Tell me about your family.”
• The question hits so hard I almost stop breathing. For a second, the entire world seems to narrow to the sound of that sentence.
• This is a test.
• Of course it is.
• He’s not asking because he cares. He’s asking because he wants to see if my story changes. If my eyes shift. If I hesitate too long.
• Maybe he’s looked into my records. Alexander anticipated that. Maybe this is the exact point where everything falls apart.
• I keep my face turned slightly toward the window so he won’t see the panic rise too quickly.
• “My family?” I repeat, hating how thin my voice sounds.
• Victor’s reply is immediate. “Yes.”
• I force myself to breathe in. Slowly. Once.
• “My parents are dead.”
• The words leave my mouth flatly, but saying them still scrapes something raw inside me. Even now. Even after all this time.
• Victor says nothing.
• He’s waiting.
• I curl my fingers tighter into my coat. “They died in an accident.”
• Still silent.
• He wants more.
• My chest tightens so badly it feels hard to pull in the next breath. “It was a long time ago,” I say. “I don’t talk about it anymore.”
• That part is true.
• Pain changes shape over time, but it never disappears. It only learns how to sit quietly in your bones until someone forces you to look at it again.
• The car slows.
• Victor pulls over beneath a dead streetlamp in front of my apartment, the rain streaking down the windshield in thick, slanted lines. The engine stays running. The heater hums softly.
• He turns to look at me fully now.
• In the dim light, his expression gives away nothing.
• I hate that.
• I hate how calm he looks while I’m trying so hard not to come apart under the weight of his attention.
• “I’m sorry,” he says.
• The words are so unexpected, so low and unadorned, that for a moment I can only stare at him.
• Sorry.
• Not a performance. Not clipped politeness. Just two words spoken in a voice I’ve never heard from him before.
• Something in my throat tightens.
• I look away first.
• “Like I said,” I whisper, “I don’t talk about it.”
• His gaze stays on me a second longer. I can feel it.
• Something dark and unreadable flickers in his eyes, something that feels less like suspicion and more like recognition.
• The silence that follows is different from the others. Not easy. Not safer. Just heavier.
• I don’t say anything. I push the door open and step out into the rain without looking back.
• Then I stop.
• It takes two breaths for the realization to hit.
• I never told Victor where I live.
• He drove me here anyway.