And Bran Kelly has not come back inside.
TWENTY-THREE
TWIGGY
Hedoescomebackinside.
Eventually.
I know because sometime after the sky turns from black to deep, hazy blue, I surface to the smell of coffee and bacon. The space beside me is still empty, the sheets cool, but I hear pans clanking and low muttering from the other room.
For a second, last night feels like another nightmare—Bran’s hand between my thighs, his mouth on my skin, the way he whisperedlet golike it was a command.
Then I shift and my body reminds me: nope, that part was very, very real.
Therunning awaywas, too.
By the time I drag myself into the main room, he’s at the stove, T-shirt on, expression carved out of stone.
“Good morning.”
He doesn’t look at me. “Morning.”
I wait a minute, standing at the island while he keeps watch over the bacon.
“Sooo…I guess we’re not going to discuss last night?”
He tips his head to the side, picks up a plate, and very carefully spoons a helping of eggs onto it, followed by two neat strips of bacon. Turning, he meets my gaze for a brief flash before setting it down on the island in front of me. “Not right now,” he says.
I narrow my eyes, sit, and pick up my fork.Okay, then.
We eat. His shoulders relax, and he talks about security sweeps and check-in calls with Jack and Kael. I nod a lot and keep my eyes on my plate. The whole thing has the vibe of the world’s weirdest work meeting, except my boss is the man who made me scream his name into his pillow six hours ago.
After breakfast, he goes outside “to walk the perimeter.”
He does that a lot the rest of the day.
Twodayslater,Iam losing my mind, one second at a time.
I’m not built for stillness. My brain likes projects, patterns, puzzles. Give me forty-seven contradictory witness statements and a corrupted hard drive and I’m in heaven.
Here? There’s TV to watch. Meals to prepare and eat. And…more TV.
I don’t even have my computer or anything sweet to munch on. No Karla’s donuts. No hacking challenges. Just static and Bran Kelly’s increasingly frayed self-control.
My arm itches.
The scrape from the panic-room hook is healing nicely, which is great and all, but the bandage is an affront to my nervous system on top of everything else.
“Stop scratching your arm.”
The command snaps across the room.
I growl under my breath and jerk my hand away from the gauze, where I’d been lightly scraping my nails over the itch.
I peek over the edge of the sofa, finding Bran where he’s putting something together in the kitchen. “You're not the boss of me.”
Bran glances over at me, expression mild. He went somewhere this morning before I woke up and came back with bags fullof groceries. Now he looks like he’s chopping vegetables and pretending they’re serial killers.
