Page 24 of Felix

“Running away?” He’s taunting me now.

“Regrouping,” I fire back, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” he challenges, rising to join me.

Chapter Seventeen

Felix Greyson

The next few days were a monotonous blur of work and driving with Aurora always by my side. We pick up the money and make the deliveries—the routine never changing. The sun beats down on us as we drive through the city streets, the buildings towering above us like giants. Car horns and sirens fill the air, creating a chaotic symphony.

On the fourth day, the thunderous growl of the removalist truck broke the morning stillness as it backed into the driveway. I stood on the porch, arms crossed, while Aurora orchestrated the dance of her belongings from the sidelines. Her dark eyes are sharp and commanding, and the movers hang on her every instruction.

“Careful with that box,” she snaps, her voice slicing through the air like a whip. The guy adjusts his grip on a cardboard box labelled ‘fragile’ and nods.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he mutters, and I can’t help but smirk.

‘Ma’am’ is a word too soft for Aurora. She’s all fire andsteel, not some delicate flower to be addressed with polite distance, but they don’t know that.

They steer clear of me, sensing the undercurrent of danger. She turns, catches my eye, and gives a slight nod. It’s an acknowledgement, a silent ‘I’ve got this,’ and I lean back against the wood railing, letting her take control. The house has been nothing but a cold shell, a place to crash between jobs, but watching her now, directing her life into each room, I feel something twist deep in my chest.

“Stop hovering, Felix. You’re making them nervous,” she says without looking at me, her focus on a bookshelf being manoeuvred through the front door.

“Can’t help it,” I reply, pushing off the railing and walking to where she stands. “It’s what I do best.”

“Hover and brood?” she teases, but there’s no malice in it. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, hidden beneath the curtain of her long, black hair.

“Exactly,” I say, grinning back at her.

The day wears on, and the house fills with the echoes of movement—furniture scraping against wood floors, boxes thudding into place. I watch her, this enigmatic woman who’s turned my existence upside down. She moves with purpose, arranging her space—her sanctuary.

“Put that one in the study,” she directs, pointing to a crate filled with leather-bound journals.

She’s turning the sterile environment into something else entirely—something warm and lived-in. It’s like she’s breathing life into these walls, and despite myself, I feel a surge of something. Pride? Relief? Hell if I know.

“Looks different already,” I comment, my hands tucked into my jeans pockets as I survey the living room.

“Better,” she corrects without missing a beat, placing a stack of books on a shelf. “It looks better.”

“Can’t argue with that,” I concede. Warmth is creeping in, chasing away years of cold detachment.

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the floor, and finally, the last mover exits, leaving us in the quiet aftermath. I walk through the rooms, trailing behind Aurora. She pauses now and then, tilting her head and deciding on the placement of a picture frame or the angle of a chair.

“Feels more like a home now,” I say, almost to myself. The words hang in the air, heavy with something like hope.

Aurora glances over her shoulder, her dark eyes meeting mine. There’s a softness there, fleeting and fragile.

The next dayhas a bite to it, cold enough to remind me of the steel that’s usually pressed against my hip. But today’s recon work for Matteo means no heat—just eyes and ears and the kind of quiet that comes with watching.

“Got to head out.” I grunt, my voice slicing through the silence of our new domesticity. “Matteo has a job.”

Aurora is in the kitchen, surrounded by boxes yet to be unpacked, her hands gripping around a steaming mug like it’s a life preserver.

Her voice remains calm and composed, but her gaze is fixated on the window, unseeing as she watches the world outside. “I’ll stay here,” she says firmly. “Someone tipped offthe press, so I now have to write a press release about my house being broken into, and my publicist wants me to reveal my move to Sydney as well.”

“Sure thing.” My gut twists, knowing leaving her alone is like stepping out onto a tightrope without a net. “Need anything before I go?”

“Could use some peace,” she half-jokes, a wry smile twisting her lips, but a tremor in her laugh tells me more than words ever could.

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