Chapter 492:

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Micah’s gaze flickered toward Darya, his longing evident. The moment tempted him to reach out and pull her into an embrace, but he thought better of it, his hand retreating just as quickly as it had risen. Crossing that line could jeopardize any progress they had made, and he couldn’t bear the thought of pushing her away once again.

Breaking the silence, Micah attempted to lighten the mood.

“Any cravings?”

Darya, uninterested in prolonging the topic, responded curtly.

Micah remained patient, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“How about local cuisine, then? I know a great place nearby. They serve the best piada and torta tre monti.”

Unwilling to indulge in further conversation, Darya shrugged off the question.

“Pick whatever you want. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Micah had grown accustomed to Darya’s coldness.

It no longer deterred him; instead, he savored every word she spoke, cherishing the rare moments when she allowed him into her world.

“Then let’s go for it. I know this neighborhood well from my time as a soldier,” Micah suggested, hoping to guide their evening toward a more pleasant experience.

Without uttering a word, Darya followed Micah’s lead, her footsteps matching his as they ventured toward their destination.

“Give me a sec,” Micah said suddenly. “I’ll be back soon.”

He briskly turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Darya to contemplate his motives. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was up to now. The nagging uncertainty gnawed at her, fueled by her impatience to finish their dinner and re-establish boundaries between them—just like the night Micah got drunk. She longed to convey the same message once more: that they should be nothing more than strangers.

While she waited for Micah’s return, the sound of footsteps disrupted her thoughts. Darya looked up to find a group of rough-looking men eyeing her with malicious intent.

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“Darya McAllister,” the man in the lead said, pronouncing her name accurately, though with a thick accent.

He was a tall, muscular figure with a commanding presence and a threatening aura. His chiseled features were partially obscured by a beard. A faint scar ran across his cheek. He wore a black combat vest adorned with various pouches and straps that held his equipment. Darya noted with alarm that there was a holster strapped to his thigh, likely containing a sidearm. The man’s eyes were piercing and cold, revealing a hardened soul shaped by countless battles. Even as he sized up Darya, he kept scanning his surroundings with a calculating gaze, constantly assessing potential threats.

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