The shower head rattled against the marble wall, blasting hot steam into the white tile enclosure.

Claire leaned her forehead against the cool porcelain, her ears tracking the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the water pressure.

Her right hand rested on the ledge, the fresh cuts from the silver shard burning under the direct heat.

On the granite counter sat a glass jar containing a brand-new, vacuum-sealed black toothbrush and a fresh tube of charcoal paste.

Next to it stood three amber glass bottles—her specific, zinc-based facial wash and the low-scent ceramide lotion she bought at the local pharmacy.

She stared at the labels, her thumb tracing the printed brand name, her shoulders losing their rigid set under the blast of heat.

The familiar scent of chamomile and oat kernel milk filled the small room, overriding the smell of rain and ozone.

Her lungs expanded fully for the first time in hours, her muscles unknotting despite the lock on the door.

Outside the frosted glass, the master bedroom remained dark except for the amber security lights glowing through the storm.

Killian sat on the edge of the leather bench, his damp chest bare, his knuckles tracing the canvas lining of Claire's dropped tote bag.

The zipper had caught on the corner of a textbook, leaving a three-inch gap near the brass buckle.

His nostrils flared, his head tilting toward the floorboards as a heavy, metallic scent leaked from the interior of the bag.

He didn't open the main flap; his massive fingers reached through the tear, pulling out the blood-stained scrap paper.

The black ink triangles Adrian had drawn smeared across his thumb, the fresh scent of another predator striking his senses.

Beneath the paper, his calloused palm hit the cold, jagged edge of the silver shard.

He pulled it into the light, his amber eyes flaring as he traced the deeply etched thorned briars across the metal surface.

The weight of it, the specific sheer marks along the fracture line—it was a piece of the breastplate from the runner in the alley.

Killian stood up, his massive shadow stretching across the ceiling as he shoved the shard into his pocket.

He grabbed his encrypted satellite phone from the nightstand, his thumb slamming into the speed-dial icon.

The connection went through on the first ring, a low crackle of static filling the line.

"Leon," Killian growled, his voice a flat, gravelly vibration that barely carried past his own jawline.

"Sir," Leon's voice came back, sharp over the digital feed. "We're maintaining the southern perimeter at the gate."

"They left a marker," Killian said, his eyes locking onto the frosted glass of the bathroom door. "She found a piece of their plating in that alley."

The line went silent for two full seconds, the sound of rain hitting the VRL penthouse windows filling the gap.

"Miss Claire know about Suture?" Leon's voice cut through the speaker, tight, sharp.

Killian walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the red brake lights crawl along the interstate forty floors below.

"Pull the second tier from the logistics division," he commanded, his fingers tightening on the phone casing. "I want six men on the campus grid by dawn tomorrow."

"Understood," Leon said. "Plainclothes or full tactical detail?"

"Unmarked vehicles," Killian said, his jaw setting into a hard line. "Establish a five-block radius around her apartment and the psychology hall. Nobody with a pulse gets within ten yards of her without a scan."

"And if the Suture moves another runner into the sector?"

Killian watched his own amber reflection in the dark glass, his chest rising in a slow, lethal expansion.

"Take the heads and dump the meat in the river," Killian whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, final register.

"Understood, sir. The perimeter will be locked down before the first morning lecture."

----

The bathroom door creaked open, sending a cloud of white, chamomile-scented steam rolling into the bedroom.

Claire stepped out, the oversized black cotton bathrobe pooled around her ankles, her wet curls wrapped in the dry towel.

She stopped three feet from the threshold, her green eyes immediately tracking the position of her bag on the floor.

The canvas flap was shifted two inches to the left, the white scrap paper gone from the side pocket.

Killian didn't move from the window, his large back completely blocking the gray light of the storm outside.

"You found it," Claire said, her voice thin, clear, and stripped of emotion.

Killian slowly turned around, his bare chest glistening with a light sweat from the high indoor heat.

"You shouldn't have gone back to that alley, Claire," he said, his voice low, sand-paper rough.

"It's evidence, Killian," she replied, taking a step forward, her bare feet silent on the dark oak planks. "In my world, when someone tries to tear your throat out, you look for a motive."

"In your world, motives are written on paper," Killian growled, taking two massive strides toward her until his heat hit her face. "In theirs, it's written in blood."

He reached into his pocket, holding the silver shard between his thumb and forefinger, the thorns catching the amber light.

"This belongs to a gang that doesn't leave witnesses," he whispered, his eyes dropping to the small white bandage on her hand. "You're keeping trophies from an apex predator, Claire. That makes you target practice."

"Then explain the symbol," she pushed, her chin tilting up, her green eyes locking onto his amber stare. "Adrian called them the Suture. He said they were rejects. What did he mean?"

Killian's throat let out a short, suppressed rumble, the skin over his collarbone turning a dark, flushed red.

He didn't answer. He simply reached out, his large, damp hand catching the collar of her robe, pulling her one inch closer.

The scent of her skin—clean, warm, mixed with his own expensive soap—hit his senses like an electric current.

Claire didn't pull back, her fingers locking onto the thick fabric of his waistband, her breathing shallow but steady.

"You're protecting me from them," she whispered, her eyes tracking the sharp angle of his jaw. "Or are you just protecting your property?"

Killian's hand trembled against the cotton of her robe, his fingers tightening until the fabric groaned.

"You're not property, Claire," he whispered, his face dropping until his lips almost brushed the rim of her glasses.

He pulled his hand back with a violent jerk, turning his face toward the dark hallway.

"Get some sleep," he said, his voice cracking with the effort. "Lock the door."

He stepped out of the room, the heavy oak door clicking into place behind him.