I undress quickly, folding my clothes and setting them on the counter beside Mercy.The porcelain sink is chipped, stained yellow around the drain.The mirror is fogged at the edges.Everything in the room has been worn down by years of people passing through, leaving nothing of themselves behind.
That's what I'm supposed to do.Pass through.Leave nothing behind.
So why does it feel like every hour I spend with him strips away another layer of who I thought I was?Like I’m leaving pieces of myself scattered behind me with every decision, every glance, every lie I’ve let stand?
I step under the shower.The water is almost scalding—good.I let it hammer over my shoulders, my spine, letting the heat sting until it borders on pain.Anything to quiet my thoughts.
Steam gathers thick around me, and for the first time since we left New Orleans, I pray aloud.Not the whispered fragments I’ve been clinging to between forged signatures and cartel threats, but actual words.
“God… thank You.For protection.For seeing us through.”
Relief loosens something inside me.But even as the praise leaves my lips, the peace won’t settle.It flutters, slips, refuses to land.
Because if I stand here long enough, I can’t avoid the real questions.
God made allowances for withheld truth.
But what about this?What about pretending to be someone I’m not—living in half-truths, navigating full lies?What about letting Jagger believe things I haven’t corrected?What about letting him kiss me?
I press my palms flat against the tile and bow my head.The water runs down my back in relentless rivulets, but it can’t wash the guilt off.
Concealing information isn’t sin.ButwhyI’m doing it might be.
I can justify the undercover work.I can justify protecting the mission.I can justify withholding details that would compromise the DEA and Hightower and every life this operation might save.
But I can’t justify the way my heart stumbles when he looks at me like I’m the only person in his collapsing world worth holding onto.
I can’t justify how the danger makes everything feel sharper, closer, more intimate than it should.
I tilt my head back, letting the water run into my hair, over my face, blurring everything.But it doesn’t drown the truth pressing in from every direction.
The real compromise isn’t the lies I tell to keep us alive.
It’s the ones I’m starting to tell myself.
Eleven
Jagger
I'm half watching a local weather channel’s report about the storm system moving through when the bathroom door opens a crack, and she peers out.Steam billows into the room, carrying the scent of cheap motel soap.
"Hand me my bag, would you?"
From my spot on the bed, I cross my ankles and give her a teasing smile."Just got comfortable.Come get it yourself."
She growls low, and I swear I can see her jaw tighten even through the narrow opening."Quit messing around, Jagger.Give me my bag so I can get changed."
Much as I'd like to see her come out wearing only a towel, I'm pretty sure she'd make me pay for it.Probably with another Krav Maga move I won't see coming.
I make a show of getting up, stretching like it's the hardest thing I've done all day, and amble across to where she dropped her duffel by the door.
She uses the door as a shield, keeping it pressed against her shoulder.Steam continues to roll out around her, and through the gap I catch a glimpse of bare shoulder, damp skin, water droplets trailing down?—
She snatches the bag from my hand before I can get a better look.
When she steps out a few minutes later, she's dressed—fresh jeans, a faded black T-shirt with some grunge band logo on it, and her boots laced tight.Her hair is damp, pulled back in a ponytail.She's scowling at me, and her weapon is in her hand, not aimed at me.
Yet.
