Inheritance ✔

Chapter 11 - Fault Lines

Laurier Ashford

It's strange how silence can feel louder than any explosion.

The penthouse was quiet now. Too quiet.

No alarms. No gunshots. No screaming. Just the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room and the soft hum of the security grid cycling outside the windows.

Renzo was recovering in the guest wing. I'd moved him there after the fourth night—not because I didn't want him near, but because something inside me needed space. Not physical. Emotional.

We hadn't touched since that night.

Not in the way we used to.

He hadn't kissed me. I hadn't climbed into his bed again. We spoke about logistics. Schedules. Surveillance. We were, technically, back to work.

But something between us was different now.

Something raw.

Something cracked.

Like glass under pressure.

I stood barefoot on the balcony with a cup of untouched coffee, staring out at the skyline. My sister was safe. Renzo was alive. Dagon had gone underground.

So why did I feel like everything was still falling apart?

"You haven't touched your coffee."

I didn't flinch at the sound of his voice.

Renzo stepped beside me, limping slightly but upright. He was wearing a soft black shirt and dark jeans, clean-shaven, with that familiar quiet control draped over him like armor.

"You should be resting," I said, still looking ahead.

He shrugged. "Hard to rest when the silence is this loud."

I let out a faint breath of agreement.

We stood there for a moment, side by side. Not speaking. Just... being. The air was warm but not comforting. The city stretched endlessly in front of us. Somewhere out there, Dagon was still breathing. Still waiting. Like a vulture in the dark.

"I'm sorry," I said.

Renzo blinked. "For what?"

"For bringing you into this. For dragging you into my mess."

"You didn't drag me into anything," he replied. "I walked in willingly."

"Doesn't make it right."

He leaned forward, arms resting on the railing, eyes scanning the horizon.

"I've known since we were kids that you'd always attract danger. Not because you're reckless—though you are—but because you shine so damn bright. People either want to own it... or destroy it."

I looked at him. "Which one are you?"

He glanced sideways, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Neither. I'm the one who guards it. Even if it burns."

My chest tightened.

I hated that he could still say things like that—with no hesitation, no flinch, like it didn't cost him everything.

"You say it so easily," I murmured. "Like loving me doesn't hurt."

"It does," he said. "Every day."

That silenced me.

Later that night, I couldn't sleep.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, mind tangled in thoughts that refused to quiet down. Memories of the shipping yard. Of Eloise sobbing. Of Renzo's body jerking when the bullet hit. Of blood blooming across his side like a slow, spreading flower.

I sat up.

Threw the blanket off.

My feet carried me to the guest room before I even realized I was moving.

I didn't knock.

The door creaked open softly.

He was awake—propped up in bed, reading something on his tablet. When he looked up, our eyes met.

Neither of us spoke.

I walked in. Closed the door behind me. And sat on the edge of his bed.

"I thought I wanted distance," I said quietly. "But I don't."

He didn't say anything.

I met his gaze.

"I'm scared," I admitted. "Not of Dagon. Not of the threats. I've been dealing with those my whole life."

"Then what?"

"Of this," I whispered. "Of us."

He lowered the tablet. "Why?"

"Because I can handle enemies. I can handle weapons and sabotage and betrayal. But you? You feel like something I could ruin just by touching too hard."

His hand reached for mine.

"You haven't ruined me," he said.

I looked down at our joined hands. His skin was still warm, rough in all the ways that reminded me of how fiercely he lived. How fiercely he loved.

"I don't know how to be... soft," I said.

"You don't have to be."

"I don't know how to need someone without resenting them for it."

"Then don't need me," he said, voice low. "Choose me."

That nearly broke me.

Because that was the difference, wasn't it?

Needing someone was weakness.

Choosing someone? That was power.

"I don't know if I'm built for this," I whispered.

"Neither am I," he said. "But I'm still here."

I looked up at him. At the man who had bled for me. Killed for me. Waited for me.

"I want to try," I said. "Even if I fail."

"You won't."

"I might."

"Then I'll catch you."

I exhaled. Let the walls come down—just a little.

I leaned forward, slowly, carefully.

And kissed him.

Not like before. Not with hunger. Not with lust.

But with something terrifying and quiet and real.

He kissed me back just as gently.

And when he pulled me into his arms, I stayed.

The next morning, things didn't magically fix themselves.

I still barked orders too sharply.

He still watched me like I was made of glass and gunpowder.

But there was a shift.

When I walked past him in the hall, I let our fingers brush. When he handed me my phone, I let my hand linger on his. When we passed each other in the kitchen, I leaned into his side—just briefly.

Little things.

Not enough to make it obvious.

But enough to let him know: I was still here.

Still choosing.

Every day.

Even when it scared me.

Even when I didn't know how this would end.

Because for the first time in years... I didn't want to do this alone.

And that terrified me more than anything Dagon Stallard ever could.