Goddess, Codes, and the Next Move

Breakfast debris scatters sunlight across the table, the city’s thrum filtered to a poised edge. I’m staring at my coffee, mind on codes and threats, when the energy in the room tilts and I look up—actually see him.

Asdar.

Young, copper-haired and golden-eyed, tattoos peeking from his sleeves to his throat, every inch of him serious as fate, sweet only for me. I haven’t seen him since London; the months have stretched out longer than I care to name.

I don’t wait. I’m out of my chair, and he’s already closing the distance, body lean, hungry for closeness. I press my head against his chest, arms around his waist, every line of him reassuring and alive. He smells like the wild, like forest and a promise I’ve missed; no soap or city can mask it.

He says nothing at first, just presses his chin to my hair, holding me with a certainty that’s as much vow as embrace. His heart thrums a pulse I know from dreams—steady, fierce, a perimeter more real than steel.

When I tilt up to meet those gold eyes, he gives me that solemn, lupine smile, the one that means he’s seen all the danger but trusts me to steer toward it.

“It’s good to see you, Elena.” His voice is lower, as if he’s reserving strength for later. “I came as soon as I could.”

I want to ask a dozen questions—I want to stay right here, anchored—but the city and the threat and Sandi all crowd back in.

He nods to Karim, who gives him a short gesture with his chin.

I let him go—not far. He slips into the seat on my right, close enough that our legs touch, his warmth a buffer against the morning’s next demands.

The plan sharpens. I lay out the notebook, flicking pages to my Iran notes. Asdar’s wolf-focus is instant; he listens not just as a lover, but as the team’s edge—reading threat, weighing angles, never distracted. Karim, across from us, absorbs this, his restless stallion energy ready to run at a cue.

“This isn’t about Tarmo,” I say, voice steadier. “Sandi is key—her message is a cypher, a weapon with the right reader. If she’s in Iran, we need local hands—Ekrem, the real keepers of the code.”

Asdar nods. “Then we hunt.” His words, simple and solemn, carry more promise than bravado—there’s no doubt, only loyalty and dangerous grace.

Karim grins, logging names, all quicksilver wit and readiness to move.

The three of us—myth, muscle and code—move into the city’s current. Sandi’s life, the coded story she carries, is about to pull us into the Persian labyrinth; and for the first time since London, I feel invincible, the team beside me wholly, fiercely, mythically real.

I.Ph.