I’m angry—at her for wanting to leave, at myself for wanting her to stay, at Sal for the rules that say a civilian witness doesn’t get to walk away breathing. Anger is easy for me. It's where I live and breathe. But underneath it is this other dangerous thing I've never felt before, and it cages in my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
I close my eyes and map tomorrow in my head.
I’ll shower at five, drink the rest of the coffee, drive north before the sun comes up. I’ll walk into Sal’s study and pour him two fingers of the Basquiat scotch he pretends he doesn’t love. Then I’ll sit, look him in the eye, and tell him what I really think.
How brilliant she is, how the numbers sing for her. And Sal will study me the way he studies everyone, because he never makes any decision hastily. He thinks things through and plans for the long road. And I'm not sure how he'll feel about what I've done and what I want. But I have to make him at least try to see it my way.
I can't imagine the alternative. It's too painful to even think.
Behind the door, her breathing evens out. She’s worn herself out. I hear the bed springs squeak and the room go perfectly silent, and my heart settles a little, enough to let my own fatigue creep back in around the edges.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, back against the door, knees up. The key stays in my fist. I’m not opening it tonight. She’s too raw and I’m too close to doing something stupider than locking her in—like unlocking the door and crawling into that bed just to feel her breathe against my shoulder and pretend the world isn’t waiting outside to burn us both.
Tomorrow, I fight for her, but tonight, I guard the door like the jealous bastard I am.
I tip my head back against the wood and close my eyes.
And I pray she forgives me for being such an idiot.
19
RILEY
My fist slams against the door for what feels like the hundredth time, and my voice comes out raw and hoarse when I shout his name again.
"Rafe!"
And there’s still no fucking answer, just the same oppressive silence that's been keeping me company since he locked me in here last night. My throat aches from screaming, my knuckles are bruised from pounding, and I'm so angry I can barely think straight.
I had good news—progress to report. I'd finished the November files ahead of schedule, found a workaround for the encrypted backups that would save us days of work, and I was actually excited to tell him. Like some kind of pathetic puppy waiting for approval from the man who's been holding me captive for weeks.
And he didn't even let me speak. He locked me in here like I'm a bad child who needed to be punished.
I lean my forehead against the door and close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. My chest feels constricted, and there's a burning behind my eyes that I refuse to acknowledge. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to give him that satisfaction. But the hurt is there anyway like a heavy lump in my chest threatening to drown me.
That wasn't him last night, the way he manhandled me, the way he spoke to me. It felt wrong, harsh in a way that didn't match the man who brought me coffee in the mornings or kissed me slowly in the dark or told me I was doing well when I finished a difficult section of code. That Rafe was careful with me and saw me as more than just a tool.
Or maybe I was fooling myself the entire time.
Maybe all of this—the softness, the vulnerability, the moments where he looked at me and I thought I saw something real—was just him playing a game. Keeping me compliant. Making sure I'd keep working for him without the need for threats or violence.
I step back from the door and walk to the bed, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress. My hands are shaking, and I press them flat against my thighs to stop the tremors.
I chose this. That's the part that makes me feel sick. Yes, he threatened my family at the start. Yes, he gave me no choice when his men shoved me into that SUV and brought me to his house. But everything since we came to the safehouse was me. I deleted his files that would've taken him down and rebuilt his records of my own free will because he said he needed me in his life. And I was stupid enough to believe him.
God, I am so angry with myself.
I was foolish enough to let him under my skin. To think that the connection between us meant something. To imagine that maybe, when this was all over, he'd find a way to let me go where I'd be safe and be able to go home to see Lila and my parents.
The knock on the door startles me, and I look up as it swings open. Rafe stands in the doorway holding a mug of tea, steam rising from the surface. His jaw is tight, and he doesn't say anything as he steps into the room, but he also doesn't look me in the eye. Which isn't like him.
"Get out," I tell him coldly, after banging for forty minutes. But I never wanted him in here. I just didn't want the door locked. I wanted to get out.
He pauses mid-step and sighs hard. "Riley?—"
"I said get out. You're not welcome in my room."
"This isn't your room. It's a room in a safehouse I'm paying for."
