Unseen Scene— End of Book Two, Treaty Version (Adam PoV) (Patreon)

Adam hoists a large crate from the back of the truck onto one shoulder before following the maa-alused, who leads him to the mountain of boxes nearer the caves.

The move has been mostly well organized, with only a couple of hiccups—from The Agency’s side, not the maa-alused’s. A fact which doesn’t sit well with Adam. If he’d had a chance to co-ordinate the move, it would have run like clockwork without even the sniff of a hitch.

As he follows the maa-alused, the faint whisper of a voice makes his heart quicken. Instinct drives him, and he comes to a halt, swivelling around to find the source of the voice which captures him like siren song.

The Detective stands at a cave entrance across the other side of the clearing.

Unfortunately, they are not alone.

-

If Falk attracted to the MC

Even from this distance, Adam can sense the wanting which tempts the maa-alused leader closer to the Detective.

His chest aches as he forces the prickle of uncertainty to temper within him.

Maybe it’s the Detective’s power that draws the leader in so close?

He grits his teeth with a growl and turns away from the scene.

--

If Falk not attracted to the MC

Adam lingers as worry make his chest contract.

Even with the treaty signed, he wonders if the maa-alused leader is drawn to the Detective’s power.

How could he not be?

Beneath their skin runs a force which could shape the world for someone who could wield it.

It’s a thought that helps keep Adam at bay, even when his heart begs him not to.

He grits his teeth with a growl and turns away from the scene.

-

“Is it too heavy for you?” the maa-alused asks with a frown, reaching out to the load balanced on Adam’s shoulder. “I can help, if you wish.”

He shakes his head. “It is not the crate which weighs against me.”

The maa-alused blinks a few times before shrugging. “Sure.”

They start off again towards the pile of boxes, where Adam deposits his cargo, ensuring he keeps his back turned away from the caves.

“You continue to ignore what is so obvious to you?” a voice asks.

Adam glances to the side to see Sanja closing in on him, and he only just avoids letting out a groan.

“You came with them, I see,” he states, ripping off the top of the crate with one motion, bent nails clinging to the wooden lid.

She shrugs, the motion seeming heavy beneath her thick woolen shawl. “They are my family. Where else would I go?”

At that, Adam gives a definite nod of understanding.

The two fall into silence as Adam carefully unloads the contents of the box.

“Why do you not look at them?” Sanja finally asks. “Do you believe that just glancing their way will break this wall of resolve you have built for yourself?”

Adam pauses. “Yes.”

Sanja lets out a breath and nods. “With what is to come, maybe that is for the best.”

“You cannot scare me with your vague fortunes, Teller,” Adam states, once again trying to focus fully on the task at hand, rather than the curiosity which tempts him to ask her all the questions that haunt him.

“I do not wish to scare you. I only wish to warn you.” Her hand lands on his. “You have the strength to save so many, but is it enough to save yourself?”

He rolls his lips together before giving in and looking at her.

“Would you ever let anyone save you?” she asks.

“If it meant them coming to harm—no, I would not.”

Her eyes drop, her expression saddening, and she pats his hand before her fingers slide away. “Then you have my deepest sympathies.”

“Because I won’t let anyone come to harm for me?” he scoffs.

She meets his eye. “Because you just may.”

Any reply Adam could make withers on his tongue as his throat parches. Fear catches at the edges of his nerves, making them raw beneath his skin.

“Allow yourself a moment of joy,” Sanja continues. “You will need the memory of it for what’s to come.” From her skirt pocket, she produces a piece of paper and lays it on top of the box.

Adam watches her leave before he can finally draw in a breath, forcing his paralyzed lungs to work again. He tries to shake off the foreboding which claws and paws at him, but it’s a struggle, so he turns to the paper to distract himself.

Only to find it’s not paper at all, but the photo from the carnival.

He and the Detective, beneath dazzling lights. His fingers run across the image of the Detective, and a smile laces over his lips before he can catch it.

Neatly, he folds up the photo and slips it into his pocket, telling himself he will rid himself of it later.

…Two months later, it remains in place, the creases worn from use.