“Bet you’re regretting letting me lead for once,” he mutters, voice rough, jaw clenched like he's holding in more than just pain.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, crouching beside him, eyes scanning the metal edges barely visible beneath his boot. “You’d have found a way to piss off a landmine even if I was leading.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh. “You always know how to make a guy feel safe.”
“Shut up and keep still,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “You step off that thing wrong, they’ll be picking us both up with tweezers.”
I glance at the exposed pressure plate, mapping out every possibility in my head. We’ve done this before. Carefully. Slowly. Like defusing a bomb while it’s already counting down.
But it’s when my hands steady over the device that my brain chooses that moment to flash to the goddamn email.
Isabel.
Last night.
Photos. Words that felt like they came with a knife.
“Thought you should know what’s happening back home…”
Then her. Smiling at someone who wasn't me. His hand on her back like he had the right.
It was one of the bodyguards that sent them.
The betrayal slices sharper than any shrapnel. My pulse kicks. Breath shortens.
“Hey,” CJ says, looking down at me. “You good? You just spaced.”
“Fine,” I gritted, voice lower. Colder. “Focus.”
I can’t afford this. Not now. But the images cling like smoke.
We had a pact, Isabel and I. A marriage made of strategy and necessity, sealed with paperwork and fake smiles. We were supposed to walk away after I got back. Sign the divorce. Be done.
But we didn’t.
We confessed. We broke every rule we made. I told her things I don’t tell anyone—hell, even CJ doesn’t know half of it. And she said she loved me like it hurt to admit it.
So why the hell would she smile at someone else like that?
Why would she let someone touch her?
“Still with me, Nate?” CJ’s voice snaps me back.
“Yeah.” My voice is quieter this time, raw. “Just thinking.”
“Don’t.” His eyes meet mine. I didn't tell him a thing but he saw my reaction to that damn email. “The rest of it, whatever happened back home—you deal with later. Got it?”
I nod once. “Got it.”
He’s right. Isabel, the pictures, the betrayal—if it is betrayal—can wait. Right now, my best friend is sitting on top of death, and I’m the only thing standing between him and it.
But once we’re out of here?
I’m getting answers.
And God help the man in those photos if what I saw is real.
We talk while I work, and it’s not just for distraction. I want him grounded. Present. Human. Because fear makes people stupid. I need him clear-headed. “How did you meet her?”
