"You're such an asshole." The word comes out cracked, broken in the middle. "I thought—Maya said you were safe. Nova said you'd protect me. But you're just like every other man who thinks he knows what's best for me. Who makes decisions about my life without asking. Who takes what he wants when he wants it."
The comparison hits harder than her shove did.
"I was trying to protect you."
"From what? Information? Or from yourself?"
I don't have an answer to that.
"I'm going to get dressed." She's already moving toward the bathroom, bare feet slapping against the hardwood. "My clothesshould be dry by now. And when I come out, you're going to tell me everything. Every text. Every update. Every single thing you've been keeping from me."
The bathroom door slams hard enough to rattle the frame.
I stand in the middle of the living room, hands at my sides, and try to remember how to breathe.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I wasn't. That's the problem. I see her in my shirt, see the fire in her eyes, and something in me wakes up that has no business waking up. Not here. Not now. Not with her.
She's right to be angry. Right to push me away. Right to call me an asshole.
Red's voice echoes in that country drawl of his:You've got a good heart, boy, but you're pissier than a stepped-on snake in winter when you're cornered.
He was right.
But I'm still an asshole who's going to keep her alive whether she likes it or not.
When she comes out twenty minutes later, she's not wearing my shirt.
She's in sweatpants. Gray, rolled at the waist—the same ones she was wearing when she showed up. Men's sweats. Someone else's clothes.
And Maya's shirt, hanging loose. Anything but mine.
Message received.
Her hair is damp and pulled back, and she's not looking at me.
I'm sitting at the kitchen table. Waiting.
"Sit down," I say. "I'll tell you everything."
She hesitates. She's weighing it—whether to trust me, whether I've earned another chance, whether she even wants to be in the same room as me right now.
She sits. Across from me, as far away as the small table allows.
I tell her.
Crow's updates. Nova's check-ins. The rental car. The false alarms—three of them in three days, each one making my chest tight until confirmation came through. The real concerns—suspicious vehicles, unverified reports, the threat that hasn't let up since she got here.
When I get to the text that came in this morning—the one I've been holding onto since dawn—her face changes.
"Daniels," I say. "The officer who took the round to the leg. He's being released from the hospital today. Full recovery expected."
She exhales. Something loosens in her shoulders.
"Thank God." Her voice cracks. "He was so kind to me. The whole drive to the safe house, he kept cracking these stupid jokes, trying to make me laugh. And then when everything went wrong, he—" She stops. Swallows. "I thought he might die because of me."
I don't say anything. Just watch her face.
