"We're already targets," Stryker says from his chair. "Might as well make it count for something."
The conversation continues as they work through details and logistics and contingency plans, but my attention keeps drifting to Khalid. He hasn't spoken since we arrived. Just sits by the fire with his hands folded, listening to adults debate whether to put him in front of the world and ask him to bleed his trauma for public consumption.
It isn't right. None of this is right.
But maybe that's exactly the point. The Committee has been operating in shadows for years precisely because no one was willing to step into the light and demand accountability. Someone has to go first. Someone has to be brave enough to tell the truth regardless of the cost.
The meeting winds down without a final decision. Kane declares a rest period, arguing that they all need sleep before they can plan effectively. Willa checks Dylan's wound again and threatens dire consequences if he doesn't stay horizontal for at least six hours.
Back in the bedroom, I help Dylan lower himself onto the mattress. He's grayer than before, the exertion having cost him more than he wants to admit. But when I move to sit on the chair, his hand catches my wrist.
"Stay."
The word is simple, but the weight behind it isn't. I hesitate for only a moment before carefully settling onto the bed beside him, mindful of his injured side.
"I'm not going anywhere," I tell him.
"I know." His hand finds mine in the dim light. "That's what scares me."
"Dylan—"
"Everyone I care about ends up dead." The words come out raw, stripped of the careful control he usually maintains. "Lisa. Maya. Every member of my team who trusted me to keep them safe. The Committee doesn't just kill their targets, Reagan. They destroy everything and everyone connected to them."
"I'm not Lisa." I shift closer, careful not to jostle his wound. "I walked into this with my eyes open. I knew the risks."
"Did you? Did you know that loving me might be a death sentence?"
The word hangs between us. Loving. Neither of us has said it before, not directly, and hearing it now, in this context, makes my chest ache.
"I'm not going to pretend I'm not terrified," I admit. "But I'm more terrified of walking away. Of spending the rest of my life wondering what we could have been if I'd been brave enough to stay."
His hand tightens on mine. "This isn't bravery. It's insanity."
"Maybe." I lean in, pressing my forehead against his temple. "But it's my insanity to choose."
He turns his head, and his lips find mine. The kiss is softer than the ones we've shared before, tinged with exhaustion and injury and something deeper. When we break apart, his eyes search my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"I can't do this the way I usually do." His voice is rough. "Can't take control. Can't?—"
"Then don't." I brush my fingers along his jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against my skin. "Let me."
His breath stutters. "Reagan?—"
"Trust me."
The tension in his shoulders eases. The hard line of his jaw softens. The constant vigilance that defines him, the need to protect and control and manage every variable, loosens its grip just enough for me to see the man underneath. The one who's been carrying guilt and grief and responsibility for so long that he's forgotten what it feels like to let someone else share the load.
I kiss him again, slower this time. My hands trace the lines of his face, his neck, careful to avoid the bandaged wound at his side. He makes a sound against my mouth that I feel more than hear, and his fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
"Tell me if I hurt you," I whisper against his lips.
"You won't."
I take my time undressing him, working around the bandage, peeling away his shirt to reveal the hard planes of his chest. My fingers trace over old scars and new bruises, mapping the evidence of everything he's survived. When I press my lips to the skin just above his heart, I feel his pulse jump beneath my mouth.
"Reagan." His voice is strained, rough with want.
I pull back just enough to strip off my own shirt, then my bra. His eyes darken as they travel over me, and when his hands come up to cup my breasts, the calluses on his palms rasp against my nipples in a way that makes me shiver.
