"Don't get bold with me," Thorne snarled, spit flying from his lips.
He reached out with his massive, calloused right hand and violently grabbed the thick, luxurious fabric of her black velvet cape. He yanked her forward, pulling her off-balance, his face mere inches from hers.
"I can pull you off these steps in cuffs," he threatened, his voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal growl.
It was the ultimate escalation—a physical assault on a private citizen standing on her own front porch. Thorne expected her eyes to widen in terror. He expected her to drop the silver teacup in a panic and beg for mercy.
Elara’s breath remained perfectly even. She looked down at the thick hand gripping her velvet cape, and then slowly raised her eyes back to his. A slow, chilling smirk—a smile completely devoid of warmth or humor—curled the corners of her burgundy lips.
Before Elara could speak her next words, the physical atmosphere of the street began to change. A low, thunderous vibration rattled the very stones beneath Thorne’s feet. It was a deep, guttural hum that felt less like an engine and more like a localized earthquake.
Rolling slowly out of the thick evening fog was a massive, vintage armored vehicle. It was painted in a flawless, light-absorbing matte black, its heavy chrome grille and tinted bulletproof windows giving it the appearance of a rolling fortress. It did not have the frantic, flashing lights of a local police cruiser. It had an aura of silent, unstoppable, and supreme federal power.