I shift my weight. If Dante comes back, he needs to seethe trusted man on guard, not some emotionally damaged boy trying to piece the puzzle together.
Behind the door, there’s nothing. She doesn’t make a noise, so she’s most likely still unconscious.
That’s a good thing. I’m not mentally ready to do the worst again.
Dante’s voice echoes in my head whether I want it to or not.
Hero instinct.
I almost laugh, but the sound stays bundled in my chest.
There is nothing heroic about what I’ve done. Nothing noble about following orders because it’s easier than questioning them. If anything, that instinct he’s talking about is just another liability to him.
I finally look at the door, breaking my gaze from the cracked concrete.
The paint is chipped near the handle, the metal of it rusted from years of no use. I imagine her on the other side of it, lashes resting gently against her cheeks.
She didn’t fight me when I gave her the sedative, but I don’t think anyone would have if they had just been tirelessly suffocated by water.
I look away again.
Dante is testing me. I know that now from what he told me earlier. The Boss is also in on that part too, which means he questions my loyalty for the company.
They are waiting on me to make a wrong move, or to prove that I am solidified as a trust-worthy pawn.
I straighten, reeling myself back into the job.
Whatever she thinks she sees in me, whatever angle she plans to work when she wakes up, she is wrong.
I’m here to follow orders.
And when she opens her eyes again, I’ll make sure she remembers that before she tries to make me forget it.
I stand there long enoughthat my legs start to fall numb.
Inside the room, something moves.
A light groan from her waking has me shifting on my feet, readying myself for Dante to come down.
He’s been upstairs keeping an eye on the camera feed that’s in her room. I am sure he knows she is moving around, and my assumption proves right when I hear his footsteps dipping down the stairs and straight toward the hall.
A few rough coughs echo through the door.
I reach up and rub at the back of my neck, fingers digging in harder than necessary as Dante rounds the corner.
His mask is in place and so is mine.
With that, I turn the handle and push the door open.
Dante doesn’t say a word at first.
She is half-propped against the chair, hair stuck to her temples, skin still too pale. Her eyes lift when she sees us, unfocused at first, then narrowing as recognition slides into place.
Her gaze moves to Dante, then to me. It lingers there a fraction too long.
Dante shuts the door behind us and then he crosses the room, dragging her while in the wooden chair closer to the bed.
He quickly pulls out his switch-blade and cuts the zip-ties that restrained her arms and ankles to it. Her hands are free for a moment before he zip-ties those back together in front of her.
