“I said I was at work,” I reply flatly.
She stares at me, clearly unamused. Her brows knit together, anger flaring. “I’mwork?”
“No Doc,” I exhale. “Youwerework. You haven’t been a job to me since I disobeyed Gunnar and interfered in that alleyway.”
“Oh, well, that makes it better.” She lets out a sarcastic, disbelieving laugh. “You’ve been following me. Youspiedon me.”
“Iprotectedyou. I kept you alive.” We stare at each other for a long moment. “I took care of you, Doc. Before you were mine. So youcouldbe mine.”
She shakes her head and scrubs her hand over her face. “This is insane,” she grouses. “You’re crazy.”
“Accurate,” I agree. “Completely fucking crazyfor you.”
She snickers a scoff despite her best effort to hold it in. “You should have told me.”
“You wouldn’t have trusted me. And I needed you to,” I share. “I needed to be able to keep you close so that I could keep you safe.”
We talk for a long time, a quiet conversation where the pauses stretch and the air between us feels heavy with everything that could shatter if I say the wrong thing. Her arms fold and unfold, like she can’t decide whether to protect herself from me or reach for me. I expect her to boltas I explain that I cared long before she ever let me. When I finish, and she looks at me, there’s still anger there. Hurt, too. But it’s threaded with understanding.Maybe.
Together, we leave the locker room and head back through the hospital. Gunnar is still in the lobby, posture relaxed and eyes anything but. He looks up immediately as we approach. “You guys showered?” he asks, his voice ticking up with disbelief. He grimaces slightly before I can answer. “Nope. Never mind. I don’t want to know what the two of you were doing.”
Blake huffs a tired laugh and veers toward the post-surgical room to check on Zahra. I wait with Gunnar, watching after her from the hallway. When Blake returns, her expression is steady.
“I’ll stay,” Gunnar offers without being asked. “Make sure no one comes to finish the job.”
Blake exhales a soft sigh. “Thank you.”
I nod my gratitude. “I’ll text you when we reach the safe house. And call me if anything comes up.”
Gunnar gives a sharp bob of his head. “Be careful.”
The drive is quiet. My fingers are wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, my senses stretched thin from the day. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I notice a luxury SUV two cars behind us. It’s nice. Far too nice for this side of the city. I take a left, taking obscure roads that aren’t routes. Turns that don’t make sense unless you’re watching to see if you’re being followed. And we are.
Stretching over Blake’s lap, I grab her seatbelt and yank it a little tighter. She looks up. “What?—”
The Jeep jolts as we’re rammed from behind, Blake’s scream filling the confined space.
“Glove box,” I bark. Hands trembling, she fumbles it open. Her eyes blow wide, and she freezes when she sees the gun. Her breath stutters, but she reaches in and hands it to me with shaking fingers. They crash into us again, and we are tossed around in our seats. “Take the wheel.”
She does without question, her fingers wrapping around it so tightly her knuckles blanch. I don’t let off the accelerator, and she struggles to maintain control as we barrel down the narrow street. Before they can encroach on us again, I lower the window and reach out. As I aim, they fire. I return with two shots, controlled and precise, through the driver’s chest. The pursuing vehicle veers violently as he slumps against the wheel, slamming into a building with a loud bang and sparks.
My heart is hammering as I grab the wheel with my left hand and feel over Blake’s torso and chest with my right. “Are you okay? Are you hit?” She doesn’t answer, and I shout, “Blake!”
She startles before answering, her voice thin and shaky. “I’m okay.”
I don’t slow down. The city blurs past as I drive like hell toward the safe house.
The Jeep lurches to a stop, the engine humming as it cools. I sit in the passenger seat, staring at my hands locked together in my lap. My whole body feels wrong—like it’s vibrating on adrenaline, fear, and exhaustion—and my muscles are all tight.
My door opens, and the hot desert heat spills in. “Hey,” Jagger says softly. That one little word and his deep voice cut through the noise in my head. He steps closer, placing one hand on my forearm and bracing the other at my back as I slide out of the seat, feeling like my knees might give out at any second. They almost do. My legs wobble, and he catches me without comment. He silently pulls me into his chest; it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. His arms come around me, strong and sure, anchoring me. I press my face into his chest, breathing him in, letting the shaking run its course.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs against my hair. “We’re okay. No one knows we’re staying here.” I cling to him for a minute, maybe two. He loosens his hold enough to look at me, hishands still warm on my arms as his thumbs brush slow reassurance into my skin, like he’s reminding my nervous system thatheis my safe place. “Ready?”
I’m not. Not even remotely. But I nod anyway.
The house sits back from the street, half-hidden by overgrown bushes and a sagging fence that has seen better decades. The porch light flickers, casting uneven shadows across peeling paint and warped steps. This place looks forgotten.
Inside isn’t much better. The bare floors creak faintly underfoot. Mismatched furniture has seen too much life and not nearly enough cleaning. A small kitchen is sparse, with outdated appliances, the refrigerator humming, on its last leg. A single lamp tosses a dim, yellow glow over everything. It’s functional and barely livable.
