I close the bathroom door and lean against it. My hands are shaking now that I'm alone.
The bathroom is nicer than I expected. Clean white tile, decent fixtures, soft lighting instead of harsh fluorescents. A first aid kit mounted on the wall above the toilet—industrial sized, meant for serious trauma, not scraped knees.
I strip off my ruined clothing and turn on the shower. The water pressure is good. Temperature climbs quickly to scalding.
Under the spray, I let myself have a moment of reaction. Muscles trembling from exertion and fear. The sound that escapes my throat is something between a sob and a laugh.
I'm alive.
Despite every probability, I'm alive.
Because an American demolitions expert with apparently no sense of self-preservation pulled me out of hell.
Get it together, Isabella.
I wash quickly, efficiently, using the generic soap and shampoo stocked in the shower. My hair will be a disaster without proper product, but vanity seems absurd given the circumstances. Clean is enough. Alive is enough.
When I emerge, wrapped in a towel I found in the cabinet, I can hear Remy's voice through the door. Low. Clipped. Reporting to someone.
My clothes are unwearable. I find a drawer with men's undershirts and pull one on—it falls to mid-thigh, basically a dress on my frame. Better than the towel.
Remy is off the phone when I emerge, standing by the window with his back to me. The tactical vest is gone. Just dark jeans, scuffed cowboy boots and a once expensive sweater that's seen better days.
"Your contact?" I ask.
"Robert Fitzwallace. He owns Cerberus." He doesn't turn around. "He confirmed Lazarev is off grid."
"Who is this Lazarev and why is he after me?"
"He isn't after you. He's after me, and it's personal. There haven't been any official sightings of him for months, but the explosive I didn't trigger tonight matches his signature. Fitz is running an analysis of the people you worked for?—"
"It was my mentor Emil?—"
"Yeah we know about Emil, but we want to know who he's working for and how they found you—although using your real name in the new job wasn't your smartest move."
"I was careful." The defensiveness in my voice surprises me. "I used my real credentials because false documents draw more scrutiny in academic settings, but I didn't leave a trail. I didn't contact anyone from my old life. I?—"
"Someone knew and they didn't keep their mouth shut." He turns to face me, and his eyes drop to my bare legs for just a second before returning to my face. His expression is controlled. "Or they got lucky. Doesn't matter now. What matters is staying ahead of them until we can get you somewhere more secure."
"Where would that be?"
"Working on it."
I move closer, clutching the first aid kit I retrieved from the bathroom. "You need medical attention."
"It can wait."
"No, it really can't." I set the kit on the table. "Sit."
He doesn't move. "I'm fine."
"You jumped through a window and got caught in a building collapse. You're bleeding, you're burned, and you're protecting your ribs like they're cracked. Infection in burns can kill you, and if those ribs are broken instead of just bruised, you could puncture a lung." I cross my arms. "So sit down and let me assess the damage, or I'll make the assessment while you're unconscious from blood loss or septic shock."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Stubborn."
"Practical." I pull out a chair. "Please."
He studies me for a moment, then complies. The chair creaks under his weight as he sits, angling to give me access to his injuries.
