"What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Following money trails was literally my job." He leans forward. "Let me help."
"You're an asset. You don't help. You provide information and I do what I need to, we are not equals."
"Right. And I can provide better information if I understand what we're looking for." His brown eyes meet mine. "You saidI got close to something before you took me. Let me get close again. Let me remember."
It's a terrible idea. Involving him in the investigation is a security risk, a complication, a violation of every protocol I've ever followed. He should just stay an informant. A memory bank. Someone who can draw the lines between the pieces I’m connecting.
But… he's right. He was closer to Project Omega than anyone else. His memories, fragmented as they are, might be the key to finding the new facilities.
And maybe, if I'm honest with myself, I just want an excuse to keep him close.
"Tomorrow," I say. "We'll go through the files together."
His smile is brighter than the overhead lights. "Was that so hard?"
"Yes. I’m going to shower."
He laughs, and the sound fills the apartment, and I'm starting to understand why Jace gave up everything for the chance to feel like this.
I sit down at the counter and pick up a fork.
It's not much. But it's a start.
Chapter Six: Jonah
Afterhisshower,hecomes back and small talk turns into drinks. Drinks turn into Jagger pulling a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet I hadn't found yet, pouring two glasses without asking if I want one, and nodding toward the balcony doors.
"Fresh air," he says. "You've been inside for days."
"Worried about my vitamin D levels? That's almost sweet."
He rolls his eyes. “It’s nighttime, dumbass.” Then opens the doors and steps out into the cold.
The balcony is small but private, wrapped in glass panels that block the wind while still letting you see the city sprawled out below. The lights of a thousand buildings glitter against the dark, and the sky above is that strange orange-gray that cities get when there's too much light pollution to see stars.
I follow him out, whiskey in hand, and lean against the railing. The cold bites at my cheeks, my fingers, the tips of my ears. It feels good. Really, really fucking good. After three years of climate-controlled detention, I'd forgotten what weather felt like.
Jagger stands beside me. He’s warm, the heat seeping from his body into the skin where we touch. He's not wearing ajacket, just that black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and I watch goosebumps rise along his forearms.
"You're cold," I say.
"I'm fine."
"You're shivering."
"I said I'm fine." He takes a drink, throat working as he swallows. The column of his neck is pale in the dim light, and I track the movement of his Adam's apple with more interest than is probably healthy.
We stand in silence for a while. The whiskey is good, smooth and warm going down, and it loosens the knots in my shoulders. Below us, cars move through the streets like blood cells through veins. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.
"This is weird," I say eventually.
"What is?"
"This." I gesture between us with my glass. "I should hate you. In fact, I should grab a knife and drive it through your neck while you sleep, and yet I can’t bring myself to do it. But this is all weird. Standing on your balcony, drinking your whiskey, having something that almost resembles a normal evening. Twenty-four hours ago you had your hand down my pants. Three years ago you scrambled my brain. And now we're just... hanging out."
"We're not hanging out."
