Chapter 294

“No,” Eliza said firmly, ignoring the throbbing in her wrist. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned in close, her face inches from his. “Dallas. Look at me. Smell me.” She pressed his hand against her cheek. She was wearing Midnight Rose — the perfume he had custom-ordered for her from Grasse. Dark florals and vanilla, distinct and grounding.

Dallas froze. His nostrils flared.

The sensory input cut through the haze of the panic attack. The scent. The warmth of her skin. The soft, frightened sound of her breathing.

The monitor’s frantic rhythm began to slow. 130… 115… 100.

The blackness in his eyes receded, replaced by the familiar, piercing grey. He blinked once, twice. Clarity returned — and with it, a wave of horror. He looked at his hand, still closed around her wrist. He saw the white marks his fingers had left on her skin.

He released her as though burned.

“Eliza,” he breathed. He tried to push himself upright, wincing sharply as his ribs protested. “I hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Eliza lied. She rubbed her wrist casually, covering the red marks. “You were having a nightmare.”

Dallas fell back against the pillows and turned his face away, staring at the wall. “I dreamt you got in his car. I dreamt I couldn’t run after you.”

“I know,” Eliza said softly. She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jar him. “But I didn’t go. I’m sitting right here.”

His silence was a wall of ice. She reached for his hand again. He pulled it away.

“Maybe you should have,” Dallas said, his voice hollow. “Look at me, Eliza. I’m a liability. Anson was right. I can’t protect you like this.”

A flash of anger moved through her — not at him, but at the damage the world had done to him. She took his face in both hands and forced him to look at her. His jaw was rough with stubble, his skin fever-hot.

“Stop it,” she said. “I am not going anywhere.” She held his gaze. “And since we’re on the subject of Anson — he called me.”

Dallas’s eyes sharpened instantly. The self-pity evaporated, replaced by the predator. “When?”

“Five minutes ago,” Eliza said. “He told me to ask you about ‘Project Nightingale.’ He said you were keeping secrets.”

She watched his face closely. She expected evasion. She expected anger.

Instead, Dallas looked tired. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. The predator was gone, replaced by a flat, chilling emptiness.

“He’s desperate,” Dallas said dismissively. “It’s nothing. Another one of his games.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Dallas, we promised,” Eliza said, her voice cracking. “No more secrets.”

He finally looked at her, and the coldness in his gaze made her flinch.

“We promised a lot of things,” he said.

“What does that mean?” she whispered.

“It means I’m tired, Eliza.” The words were precise and deliberate. “I’m tired of the fighting. Of the fear. When I look at you, all I see is a target. A weakness I can no longer defend.”

“I’m not a weakness,” she said, her heart beginning to pound with a new, different kind of fear.

“Aren’t you?” He gestured toward his leg. “This is because of you. All of this.”

The words struck her like a blow. She recoiled.