Beautiful. Even after everything we’ve been through, she still takes my breath away.
“How’s the patient?” she asks, settling onto the workout bench with the casual grace of someone who’s spent the past week learning the rhythms of this place.
“Functional.” I accept the coffee gratefully, savoring the first sip of something that wasn’t brewed in a medical facility. “Ghost and I were discussing your situation.”
Something shifts in her expression—wariness mixed with curiosity. “What about mysituation?”
“Your future. Your options.” I set down the coffee, needing to focus completely on this conversation. “Phoenix isn’t going to stop hunting you. Ever. And their capabilities make standard protection protocols useless.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means witness protection would require facial reconstruction. Complete identity change. No contact with anyone from your past life.” I pause, watching her process the implications. “Including me.”
The color drains from her face. “Facial reconstruction?”
“Phoenix uses advanced facial recognition technology. Without surgery, a new identity would be compromised within weeks.” The words taste like ash, but she needs to understand the reality. “You’d have to become someone else entirely.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, her brilliant mind working through possibilities and consequences with the same methodical approach she applies to linguistic puzzles.
“What’s the alternative?”
“Stay with us. Join the team as a technical consultant. Your linguistic skills are valuable for ongoing operations against Phoenix.”
“And the risks?”
“The same ones we all face. But you’d be with people who understand the threat and know how to fight it.”
Her eyes meet mine directly. “People like you.”
“People like me.”
The admission hangs between us, loaded with everything we haven’t said yet. Five days of recovery, of her sitting beside my bed, of quiet conversations that feel more intimate than anything we did in that safe house.
“I need to think about it,” she says, but something in her voice suggests she’s already leaning toward an answer.
“Take your time.” I stand, testing my balance and range ofmotion. “But while you’re thinking, there’s something I need to do.”
“What?”
“Shower. Properly. Without medical supervision or concern about pulling stitches.” I extend my hand to her. “Care to help?”
Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn’t hesitate to take my hand. “I should probably make sure you don’t fall and undo all of Skye’s hard work.”
“Absolutely. Medical necessity.”
The walk to my room feels charged with possibility and promise. The mountain facility’s luxury extends to the private quarters—spacious bathrooms with walk-in showers that could accommodate a small platoon, all natural stone and high-end fixtures.
I start the water, adjusting the temperature. Steam begins to fill the space, creating intimacy through mist and heat.
“Cooper,” Eliza says, her voice carrying uncertainty. “I should probably wait outside while you?—”
“No.” The command stops her mid-sentence. “You’re going to help me. Make sure I’m clean. Make sure I don’t miss anything important.”
Her breath catches at the authority in my voice, at the implication of what I’m asking. “I don’t think?—”
“Strip.”
The single word cuts through her protests like a blade. Her hands move to the hem of her sweater, the decision clear in her eyes as she chooses to obey.
