She’s lying,the cold voice whispers.It’s another manipulation.
But I don’t think it is.
I think, for the first time since this nightmare started, she’s telling me the truth.
At least, that’s what I so desperately want to believe.
“That’s fucked up,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
“You were sent here to evaluate whether I needed to be eliminated. And you couldn’t even report that I saved your life?”
“It wasn’t like that. If I told them I thought you saved me in the warehouse then…”
“Then what?”
“Then my cover would be blown once more. It would mean that you knew the truth about who I really was, which mean you would have to be…dealt with. No witnesses, definitely not in America’s superhero.”
“That’s really, really fucked up.”
“Iknow.”
So she cared. So it wasn’t all fake. So at least some part of what we had was real. But where’s the triumph in that? Where’s the vindication? All I feel is tired. Angry. So goddamn lonely I can barely breathe. Because even if she was honest, even if she had feelings for me, we can never go back to the way things were. That door has closed, like a jail cell slamming shut.
“I dream about you,” I hear myself say. “Every night. I dream about Montana, about the barn, about you looking at me like I was worth something. And then I wake up and remember what you are, and I want to—” I stop. My hands are shaking. “I don’t know if I want to kill you or keep you. And I don’t know which one is worse. Both options are bullets loaded with pain.”
Her hand touches my arm.
I flinch but don’t pull away.
“Nate.”
“Please.” My voice breaks. “Don’t say my name like that. Not when I don’t know who you really are. Not when everything between us was fake.”
“I told you. It wasn’t all fake.”
“I know you did. But how am I supposed to believe that now?”
She moves closer. Close enough that I can smell the soap from the shower, feel the heat of her body through the thin cotton of my shirt.
“You’re not,” she says quietly. “You’re not supposed to believe anything I say. That’s the smart play. That’s what you should do. That’s whatyou’vebeen trained for.” Her hand slidesup my arm, over my shoulder, coming to rest against my jaw. “But since when have either of us been smart about this?”
I swallow hard. “This is a bad idea,” I manage to say, but I don’t move away from her touch. If anything, I lean into it.
“The worst.” Her words fall softly.
“You’re my prisoner.”
“I’m aware.”
“I should hate you.”
“So, do you?”
The question hangs in the air between us.
I don’t answer with words.
