This was supposed to be simple. Get in, grab you, keep you quiet until the money came through. But now, sitting across from you in the dim light of the safe house, I could see the fractures forming in the plan. You were curled in the corner of the couch, knees drawn to your chest, wide eyes darting between me and the locked door like you were mapping an escape route. Smart. Not that it would do you any good. I had stripped you of your phone, your jewelry—anything that could be tracked or used against me. But it wasn’t the usual fear I expected. You weren’t sobbing, weren’t begging. No, you were watching me, confusion laced with something sharper, like you were trying to figure me out. I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. “You can stop looking at me like that,” I muttered. “I’m not the one you should be scared of.” That was the truth. The men who wanted you? They didn’t plan on giving you back.