“Insurance,” I say, and watch her face.
Her eyes narrow. “What kind of insurance?”
“You’re going to wear comms,” I tell her. “Not all the time — that’s sloppy. But when you’re with Rook or the others, you’re live to me whether he likes it or not. I’ll hear you. You’ll hear me. If I tell you to drop, you drop. If I tell you to run, you run. If Itell you to laugh, you fucking laugh. You don’t argue. You don’t editorialize. Youobey.”
Her chin lifts, defiance glittering in her gaze. “You think I can’t improvise under pressure?”
“I think you’rebrilliantunder pressure,” I say softly. “That’s the problem. Brilliant people improvise, and show off. Brilliant people get cocky or creative and that gets them dead. I don’t need you brilliant tomorrow. I need youalive.”
Something flickers hard and fast in her eyes. Vulnerability. Annoyance. Want. Gratitude she doesn’t know how to say without feeling like she’s conceding independence. She nods once, voice gravelly and soft. “Okay.”
It shocks me more than if she’d tried to argue.
I pick up the in-ear. “Tilt.”
She does. I fit it against the curve of her ear, press. It sits flush, invisible unless you know what you’re looking for. My thumb grazes the soft skin just behind her ear as I adjust the seal. Her breath catches. Mine almost does.
I keep my voice even. “Comfort level?”
“Fine,” she says, a little hoarse.
“Patch,” I say.
She swallows. “Where?”
“Pulse point,” I answer. “Here.” I brush my fingertips along the delicate line just under her jaw, where her throat meets the curve of her neck. Her skin jumps under my touch. “It’ll pick up even a whisper. You won’t have to raise your voice. Less suspicion that way, and it’ll keep you safer.”
She inhales, steadying. “Do it.”
I peel the backing and press the mic gently against her skin. It adheres like second skin. My thumb lingers a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary.
Her pupils blow wide, like that little touch sparked something else dangerously close to need.
“Say something,” I tell her, before either of us can act on this. “Low.”
She moistens her lips. “Ash.”
The word filters through the tiny receiver on my wrist, clean, perfect. My name in my own ear, low, intimate and sinful.
My jaw tightens. “Good,” I say, too brisk. “Again.”
“Ash,” she whispers.
I swallow thickly, trying to ignore the way it makes me feel.
“That’ll do,” I say.
She smiles like she knows, stepping in again, close enough that her body heat bleeds through her shirt and sinks into me.
“So,” she says softly. “Am I prepared?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “But you’re less unprepared than you were, which is the most we’re going to get in twelve hours.”
Her lashes lower. “That your clinical way of saying I did good?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Say it,” she whispers.
