Recognition flickers across his face, quickly suppressed.
“What did she say?”
“What Vicente did to Chris. During the op.” I watch the words land. Watch him not react, which tells me everything. “You already knew.”
“The agency files on the operation mentioned a relationship that was ‘sexual in nature.’“ He says the phrase like he’s quoting. “So I knew that much. But the details—what it actually meant, what Vicente did to him—that’s what Chris told me Tuesday. When I found him at his apartment.”
Chris survived something horrific. Wyatt knew.
“And neither of you thought I should know before I walked into that house? Before I sat across the table from the man who—” I stop myself. Take a breath. Force down the surge of hurt that wants to come out as anger. “I’ve been sitting in a room with Vicente for weeks, Wyatt. Listening to him talk about control and ownership and the people who belong to him. I could have been helping Chris process this if I’d known. Instead, I sat there making small talk with Vicente while Chris white-knuckled his way through dinner.”
“You don’t have clearance for the details of that op. And we didn’t want to influence how you handled Vicente. If you knew, it might have changed how you approached the sessions.”
“I understand that.” And I do. I do understand the impulse to protect someone’s story, to let them control their own narrative. But understanding doesn’t erase the sting. “What I don’t understand is why neither of you trusted me to handle it. This is literally what I do. You both decided it was better to protect me than to let me help.”
“It wasn’t about not trusting you?—”
“Then what was it about?”
He doesn’t answer. His hand moves to his throat, an unconscious gesture, and then drops.
The turtleneck. The flinching. The way he couldn’t meet my eyes on the patio.
“Show me,” I say quietly.
“Nina—”
“The turtleneck. Take it off.”
He shakes his head, flinches again.
“Wyatt.” I reach out and take his hand, lacing my fingers through his. “Whatever it is. Whatever happened. I’m not going to break. Show me.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. His hand is cold in mine, trembling faintly. Then, slowly, he reaches up and pulls the fabric down.
The bruises circle his throat like a collar. Purple and red, finger-shaped, the clear impression of a hand that squeezed too hard. I’ve seen marks like this before: in case files, in emergency consultations, in the aftermath of intimate partner violence.
I’ve never seen them on someone I love.
“Jesus.” The word comes out broken. My free hand rises without permission, hovering over the marks. Not touching. I can’t bring myself to touch them. “Jesus Christ, Wyatt.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“It looks like someone tried to strangle you.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“Chris did this.” Not a question.
“He didn’t—” Wyatt’s voice breaks. “He hesitated at first. I saw it. And I let it go because I didn’t understand how deep it went.” He swallows, and the bruises shift with the movement. “Things got intense. I asked him to go harder. And he just... went somewhere else. Dissociated. Became someone else.”
I sink back in my chair, but I don’t let go of his hand. My other hand is shaking now too. I press it flat against my thigh to still it.
“Tell me everything.”
44
Nina
