But here, in a criminal's luxury bunker with a traumatized FBI accountant, Griff had found something he hadn't felt in months.
Purpose.
Even if it was only for tonight.
10
Sunlight blazed through bulletproof windows,dragging Sarah from sleep. For one blissful heartbeat, she floated in expensive linens softer than anything in her DC apartment.
Then her ankle screamed.
The pain shot up her leg as she shifted, bringing everything back in a rush. Montana. Chechens. A man who solved problems with stolen trucks and bypassed security systems like other people fixed coffee. Her ankle throbbed with each heartbeat—swollen and angry despite Griff's insistence on elevation and ice through the night. He'd woken her twice to change the ice pack, gentle but firm.
Coffee. The rich aroma drifted from the kitchen along with quiet, efficient sounds—Griff already operational, probably had been for hours.
She swung her legs off the couch, testing weight on the injured ankle. Not as bad as it could have been. The compression wrap Griff had found in Garoffalo's extensive first aid supplies helped, but she'd definitely be limping for a while.
"Don't even think about walking on that without ice first."
Griff's voice made her jump. He stood in the kitchen doorway, already fully dressed and alert, holding a fresh ice pack wrapped in a dish towel. He looked as tired as she felt, eyes still bloodshot and puffy from the spray, though his movements were brisk, controlled. He’d clearly decided his own pain didn’t matter.
"I need to use the bathroom," she protested.
"Ice first." He moved with that silent efficiency that still unnerved her, setting up a chair with an ottoman, arranging pillows. "Elevation above your heart reduces swelling."
"I know basic first aid."
"Then you know ignoring it makes everything worse." His tone brooked no argument. "Sit."
She hobbled to the chair, trying not to show how much even those few steps hurt. Griff's hands were careful as he positioned her ankle, checking the wrap's tension.
"Purple is fashionable," he said, examining the bruising that had bloomed overnight. "But not on ankles. How's the pain?"
"Manageable."
"That's not what I asked."
Sarah sighed. "Maybe a six? Seven when I put weight on it."
"Anti-inflammatories are on the counter. Take them with food." He adjusted the ice pack. "Five minutes, then you can move around. Carefully."
She wanted to argue, but the relief from the ice was immediate. While her ankle numbed, she caught her reflection in the hall mirror.
"Oh no."
Her shoulder-length curls had transformed into something that belonged in a horror movie—tangled, crusted with mine dust, defying both gravity and basic decency.
"There's a five-star shower," Griff said mildly, pouringcoffee. "Garofalo had expensive taste in everything, including shampoo."
"After the ice torture."
"After the medically necessary treatment." But she caught the tiniest smirk at her appearance.
Five minutes felt like five hours, but finally Griff removed the ice pack, helped her stand. The ankle held, mostly.
"Bathroom's that way. Keep weight off it as much as possible."
She limped toward salvation, then stopped. "You were up all night checking on my ankle, weren't you?"
