“It’s true we should have had more time to train and plan,” I add.
I want to ask her why she never texted or called. I waited for her to reach out, and checked my phone constantly over the past few days. I wanted to text her a hundred times but stopped myself every time. I thought it was better to give her space and let her make the first move when she felt ready.
But I don’t ask. I can see the distress on her face, the tight set of her jaw, and the way her hands keep moving restlessly at her sides.
My eyes land on the single bed again, and heat rises in my chest. How am I supposed to resist her in this space? How can I be so close to her but still maintain the distance I need to stay professional? I can already imagine the bed groaning under my weight, how small the space will feel with both of us in it, and how her scent will fill the air between us.
“I need to get out,” Wren says suddenly. “Walk around, pretend like I’m trying to find work.” She grabs her jacket from where she tossed it on the dresser. “You can stay behind and get settled in. I’ll just go for a walk.”
She is already moving toward the door.
“Absolutely not.”
She stops and turns to look at me. Her eyebrows pull together.
“From this moment on, I’m your bodyguard,” I tell her. “I won’t leave you alone. Not for a second.”
“We can’t be seen together,” she argues. “It will blow my cover.”
“Then we need to merge.”
The words hang in the air between us. She goes very still.
“This won’t work if we don’t merge,” I continue. “You know that.”
She starts to protest, backing away slightly. I can see the fear shining in her eyes again, the same fear I saw in the training room.
“Is there a problem that prevents you from merging with me?” I ask her directly.
I keep my voice gentle but firm. She needs to hear this.
“I’ve merged with many humans and monsters over the years,” I tell her. “The process isn’t painful at all. I’ll be gentle, and I will respect you.”
“How will you respect me when you have access to all my thoughts?!”
Her voice rises, frustration exploding out of her. Her face flushes red, and her hands clench into fists at her sides.
“There are things I don’t want anyone to see,” she says. “It’s not unusual. All people have secrets, intimate thoughts they hide. It’s not easy to give someone access to all of it.” She takes a step toward me, anger making her bold. “So how dare you say the process is simple?”
I understand now. She is afraid of letting me in, afraid of what I will see and know about her. This is not about the physical sensation of merging. This is about vulnerability.
I take a step back and raise my hands slowly, showing her I have no intention of forcing anything.
“Yes, I’ll have access to everything,” I say quietly. “But I’m a professional. I’ve learned over the years how to detach myself, how not to pay attention to my host’s thoughts and feelings aside from what matters for the mission.” I hold her gaze. “I won’t invade your mind. I won’t push to see more. I’ll let your thoughts glide by without focusing on them. That’s what I can offer you, an assurance that I won’t pry and I won’t judge.”
She breathes heavily. Sweat beads on her forehead, and she looks at me with despair in her eyes, and I hate that I am the cause of it. The silence stretches between us. I wait, not wanting to push her further.
Finally, she nods.
“Now what?” she asks quietly.
“Sit on the bed,” I tell her. “Let’s take a moment and calm down for a minute.”
I go into the bathroom and fill a plastic cup with water. The faucet sputters before the water comes out. I bring the cup back to her and she takes it with shaking hands and drinks half of it down.
I sit beside her on the bed. The mattress dips dramatically under my weight, and the springs creak in protest.
“I can’t let you go out today,” I tell her gently. “I can’t let you out of my sight until we merge and I can be with you at all times. While we’re in this room, we don’t have to stay merged. But if you want to go out, we have to merge.”
