Conin isn’t here. He must be sleeping or preparing for the extraction.
“Are you okay?” questions Ezra as I pace the length of the kitchen.
“Sure. Yeah,” I say.
A jumble of words spills out of Ezra’s mouth. “This is driving me crazy. How am I supposed to leave not knowing what this . . . tether between us is?”
I come to a complete stop. And for some reason, his question angers me.
Because if you don’t, you’ll die.
I sure as hell don’t have the answers.
“I don’t know, Ezra. I can’t leave. My place is here. And you need to go,” I say, but each word is a knife to my own heart.
He flinches. “And if someone discovers you’re a recidivist? What then?”
“It’s never happened before. I’ll be fine.” It’s a lie. The mercenaries are here, and they know Ezra and Conin are, too. By extension, aren’t I in danger as well?
“Then we’ll stay.”
“You can’t. We both know this.”
“Aren’t you curious what this means?”
This is probably the most I’ve heard him speak during his entire visit.
“Yes! Of course, I am! But this . . . this needs to happen. You need to go, and I need to do my job,” I say.
Ezra has a retort tipped on his tongue when my phone rings. It’s a burner number Ambrosia told me to look out for. Without a backward glance, I storm through the steel door, away from discovering our truth.
Chapter 37
Ezra
His striking, angered gaze lingers long after he vacates the bunker. It’s vanished and, in his wake, my hope of discovering what this tether is. Atlas is not coming with us. If the Barclay Network discovers him and his operation . . . what then?
My thoughts are ruthless: our news channel debut, Atlas’s and Conin’s simultaneous coming out, the inescapable thrill of mercilessly kicking Callum, and the fact that neither I nor Atlas know why we’re bound. It’s like I’ve been catapulted into the air with no sure way down, eternally fearing when I’ll crash to the earth. If I ever do. I’ll be bits and pieces by then.
Conin commands the room when he materializes at the bedroom door. My heartbeat elevates, and drums like the wings of a hummingbird. This boy, no, this entire man’s expression is ashen.
Had he overheard us? Or is the rapid beat of my chest because I’ve learned he’s pansexual? That there’s a sliver of hope he reciprocates what I’ve felt for so long? He’s queer and I neverknew this about him. To be fair, I never admitted my feelings, let alone my sexuality.
“I heard some of your conversation,” Conin whispers.
“Oh,” I say, deflating.
“You know.” He swallows. I don’t . . . know. Know what? “If it means anything, I hope you two find out what’s happening. Someday.”
Something uncanny is passing between Conin and me. My lips stick together as a lump in my throat forms, burning.
“But that’s not what I want to talk about. Atlas made it very clear I should tell you and he’s right, you should know. You should know why I came with you.”
“Oh.”
He bites his lower lip, arms embracing his broad chest. Conin groans from deep within and slouches. I stand aloof from him, but I can feel it. I can sense the weight of it. The urge to quip and lighten the mood is uncomfortably stifled.
“I have another confession I need to make.”
