"This doesn't happen again," he said, the words ground out like they physically hurt him.
I laughed, a low, breathless sound that scraped my throat. "You’re terrible at lying."
His eyes flashed, a dangerous spark that said he didn't appreciate the reminder. His thumb brushed my lower lip—once. Hard enough to sting. A threat and a restraint in equal measure, a silent warning that he was the only one allowed to draw this line.
"Get some sleep," he said, his voice rough, command warring with exhaustion. "It's already late."
Then he stepped away. And I didn’t fight him. I didn't beg. I stood my ground and let him go, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
When my phone buzzed in my pocket, Flint’s photo popped up on the screen withDeadline Daddywritten across it. I debated ignoring it just to prove a point. Instead, I turned on my heel to head to my room, aware that Brewster had paused in the hall on the way to his office. He watched me bypass him, his gaze a heavy, physical weight on my back. The phone buzzed again in my hand.
No way he missed that.
He didn't ask. I didn't share. The air between us was thick with unsaid accusations and jealousy that tasted like ash. Some lines, once crossed, didn’t need to be crossed twice to change everything—they just burned the bridge down.
I closed the bedroom door, leaning back against the wood as if it could hold me up. The silence in here was different—heavy, expectant. My body was still humming, a live wire of frustration and unsatisfied lust that made me want to scream or break something. I looked at the phone in my hand, Deadline Daddy glowed like an accusation.
Answering a text was too passive. It would let me sit here and stew in the wreckage of what just happened with Brewster. I needed noise. I needed a distraction sharp enough to cut through the haze.
I hit call and pressed the phone to my ear, pacing the small space as it rang.
"Mallory."
His voice was low, rough around the edges, cutting through the line instantly. No preamble. No hello.
"What's wrong?"
Just two words. Flat. Direct. A slap in the face that knocked the air right out of my lungs.
It wasn't a question. It was a command, delivered with the absolute certainty of a man who knew the rhythm of my breathing better than I did. He heard the hitch in my throat, the slight tremor I couldn't hide, and he didn't bother with polite pleasantries. He just went straight for the wound.
The heat that had been suffocating me moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. My knees stopped trembling. The ghost of Brewster’s hands faded from my skin. This was the reality check I needed. This was the man who actually knew me, who could read me like a tactical map even when I thought I wanted to hide.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to level out, pushing the Brewster-induced chaos into a box in the back of my mind. "Nothing," I said, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "Just a long day."
"Bullshit," Flint said. "Talk."
Chapter
Twenty-Two
MALLORY
Two days after we crossed that imaginary line and Brewster kissed me, a body showed up to remind us the world didn’t give a damn about anyone’s boundaries.
It was morning. The safe house was still half-asleep—lights on timers, the air cold enough to make the tile feel mean. The coffee in the pot smelled neither fresh nor old. But it contained caffeine and right now, that was what I needed.
The television in the front room was already on.
Not loud. Never loud in a safe house. Just low enough to be background noise, but there was a hum of conversations taking place around the house itself. At least two agents were on their phones at opposite ends of the kitchen, both talking away from each other.
Investigating. Following up. Asking questions.
BREAKING NEWSflashed on the Chyron scrolling across the bottom of the screen while a shaky aerial shot took center stage and the anchors moved up to a small window in the corner.
I barely registered the anchor’s words—she was a morning show anchor, chirpy and full of pep. Just the kind of upbeat that made mornings bearable for some people. No one should be that happy. But, there she was—Felicia Ritchins, that was her name—giving the most sincere and cheerful report about a police investigation…
There was usually a rhythm to these reports. I knew the camera choices. I knew the way they framed a story when they wanted to keep you watching without giving you anything you could actually use.
