Page 40 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
“The Pact isn’t whole,” I answer, my gaze lifting to the sky, the clouds heavy with more snow. “But it’s healing.”
The words feel strange in my mouth, heavier than steel. Hope is not something I’ve carried in a long time. But tonight, in the cold shadow of a monastery built for vows, I feel the faint stir of it.
And when Roman learns that, when he realizes the brotherhood he thought shattered is stirring again, he’ll understand the truth.
The lion isn’t just returning.
He’s hunting.
28
JENNIFER
The first time it happens, I don’t notice it right away.
I’m standing in front of a cluster of journalists in Geneva, the air heavy with microphones and flashing bulbs, the smell of too many bodies pressed together in the early morning heat. My hair is still damp from the shower, my blouse creased from the rush, and the words I planned to say have slipped into a jumble in my mind. But when I open my mouth, the noise stills.
Not a silence of obedience. Not fear. It’s different. The kind of stillness that happens when every ear strains forward, when even the click of a camera shutter feels too loud.
I speak of Berlin—of the smoke, the blood, the cries of children pulled from rubble—and though my voice is calm, almost soft, I feel it settle over them like a net. The reporters lean closer, some of them with tears streaking through their makeup, others with their jaws tight and their pens trembling.
And when I finish, when I simply say, “This cannot be allowed to happen again,” there is no argument. No barrage of questions. Just a sea of nodding heads and pens scratching the words down as though they are law.
It’s only later, when I’m sitting in Malek’s office with the city stretching wide and glittering beyond the glass, that it hits me. It wasn’t just the truth that moved them. It was me. My voice. Something in it that carried more than sound.
I test it quietly at first, never in front of him.
A clerk at the courthouse argues when I ask for records I shouldn’t have. He’s firm, shaking his head, the kind of bureaucrat who would watch the world burn as long as his forms stayed in order. But I place my hand on the counter, let my voice slip lower, steadier, and say, “You want to give me those records. You know it’s the right thing.”
His eyes glaze for a moment, his lips part, and then he slides the files across the counter as though he’s the one who suggested it.
I walk out into the sharp wind, clutching the folder to my chest, my pulse racing. It’s subtle, like a trick of light, but real.
Later, in the quiet of the apartment, I whisper to the mirror. Words with no weight. “Sit. Stand. Stop.” My reflection doesn’t move, of course. But my body hums with something just beneath the surface, a power pressing outward, waiting for me to shape it.
I am not imagining it. I know I’m not.
Malek notices before I tell him. He always does.
We’re in the estate library, maps spread across the table, notes piled high, the fire casting light across his sharp features. He’s speaking with Michaelis in low tones about the summit he’s building, his voice steady, his posture relaxed, but his eyes flick to me in the way they always do when he feels something shift.
“You’ve changed,” he says finally, once Michaelis leaves.
I raise my brows, feigning ignorance. “We all have.”
He steps closer, his shadow falling across me, the lion restless in the way he carries his body. “Don’t toy with me, Jennifer.”
The sound of my name in his mouth is enough to make my chest tighten. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away. “I don’t know what it is yet. But it’s there. And I’m not afraid of it.”
His hand brushes the edge of the table, his fingers curling around the wood until it creaks. “You should be.”
“Then teach me.” My words snap out sharp, faster than I intend, but I don’t back down. “Don’t you dare stand there and tell me to be afraid while you bury yourself in maps and plans. I’m not just a woman who got pulled into your war, Malek. I’m your equal, whether you like it or not.”
For a moment, silence. His eyes burn into mine, fierce, conflicted, but not dismissive. Never that. At last, he exhales, slow, controlled, as though holding back a storm.
“You’re fire,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “And fire consumes. But it also lights the way.”
The weeks blur into a rhythm of work and whispers, of nights in his arms and mornings in front of cameras. I become more than a prosecutor chasing trails through paper and blood. I become a voice.
