Chapter 2 An offering of bounds

She expected handcuffs. What she got was coffee.

Not offered-placed.

Steam curled from the chipped ceramic like a dare. It sat between them on the polished wood of a dining table too long for two people. Ford Wilson had set it down with clinical precision, then stepped back like he'd done her a favor.

Cady didn't touch it.

"Smart," he said, lowering himself into the chair across from her. "But you'll drink eventually."

He said it like prophecy. Like he knew how people broke-how they unraveled in stages, each refusal shaving away slivers of control until all that was left was compliance dressed up as choice.

Cady stared at him. Not defiant. Not submissive. Just watching. Like if she could name the monster in the room, maybe it wouldn't eat her alive.

"You're not cuffing me," she said finally.

"No."

"You're not calling backup."

"Don't need to."

"Then what the hell are you doing?"

Ford leaned back, folding his arms. The muscles in his forearms flexed subtly. Not to threaten. Just to remind.

"That depends," he said. "What's a girl like you doing bleeding on my Persian rug at two a.m.?"

She followed his gaze. Her thigh right above the knee was smeared red. Shallow cut. Probably from the glass. She hadn't even felt it.

"Looks worse than it is," she muttered.

"Mm." He didn't sound concerned. Just amused.

Silence wrapped around them again thick and intimate, like smoke after a fire. The kind that lingers in your lungs and refuses to leave.

Cady straightened. Her hands were shaking beneath the table, but she willed her voice steady. "I'll leave. You've made your point."

"No," he said.

"No?"

"You walked into my house. You don't get to walk out until I understand you. Until I'm done with you."

"I'm not a fucking puzzle."

"Everyone is. Some people are just better at pretending they aren't."

She hated how calm he was. How every word felt like a needle threading through her skin, stitching her into something she didn't consent to wear.

"Why do you care?" she snapped. "I'm nobody. A broke idiot who made a bad choice. There's no story here."

Ford's jaw ticked, just slightly.

"That's the problem," he said, voice low. "I think there is."

He stood and circled the table. Not fast. Just deliberate. Calculated. She felt her pulse jackhammer as he moved behind her, the predator's orbit tightening.

"You knew where I lived. You knew my schedule. You bypassed the system. Half the city's afraid to say my name out loud, but you thought this was the best house to rob?"

She didn't answer.

"Someone sent you?" he asked.

"No."

"Bullshit."

Cady stood up too fast. The chair screeched against the floor. "No one sent me, alright? I don't even know you. I didn't do this for revenge or some vigilante fantasy. I was desperate. I needed the money"

He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

"That," he murmured, "is the most dangerous motivation of all."

She clenched her fists. "You think I wanted this? You think I get off on crawling through broken windows, hoping I don't die before sunrise?"

Ford studied her like she was a weather pattern. Something shifting. Unpredictable. Beautiful only if you forgot the damage it caused.

"You're lying," he said quietly. "But not about everything."

She stepped back, needing space. Air. A version of the world where he wasn't dissecting her like a crime scene.

"I just want to leave."

"I know," he said. "But wanting doesn't mean getting."

And just like that, he turned and walked out of the room. Not locking her in. Not restraining her. Just leaving as if he trusted she wouldn't run. And the worst part is he was right. She can't risk that he won't snap and stab her with something sharp.