“I could,” he said. “I chose not to.”
Wow, that cut.
“You think you can just touch the nerve and I’ll react?”
“I think,” he said, “you already did. You just call it conviction.”
I folded my arms, bracing. “You’re enjoying this.”
“No,” Brewster said. “I’m watching. He wants something. That’s clear. But how you respond—how fast, how sharply—that tells me more than he ever will.”
“So you’re studying me.”
“Yes.”
“And what are you learning?”
His eyes didn’t waver. “That when you’re challenged, you get sharper. More alive. Less careful.”
“That’s not a flaw.”
“Never said it was.” His mouth twitched. “It’s leverage.”
I should’ve recoiled.
Instead my breath caught.
“You’re an infuriating bastard.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You’re also wrong. About me. About him. About this.”
“Then tell me,” he said. Not taunting. Not soft. Just close. “What’s your next move?”
I opened my mouth—and froze.
Suddenly I was aware of everything. My breath. The heat in my face. The way his attention didn’t overwhelm me—it pinned me.
“You want me to answer him?” I asked.
“I want you,” Brewster said carefully—too carefully—letting the words hang before he finished, “to decide if your choices are still about strategy or just a habit.”
That stung. “You don’t get to define that.”
“No,” he said. “But I get to ask if you’re still choosing it.”
The image still glowed faintly on my phone. My face. Paused. Read.
I hated that he could see the conflict in me.
I hated even more that he was right.
I was alive right now. Focused. Wired the way I only ever was when a story was about to break.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I said.
“So are you,” Brewster replied, close enough now that I had to lift my chin to meet his eyes. “The difference is—you think you’re the only one who knows it.”
