Never thought he’d want cream. Never thought he’d have chickens. Or make small talk.
Or seem so damn… human.
God.
I don’t like this.
Sympathy creeps in. Dangerous. “Let’s cut to the chase.” My voice comes out hard, cold as the post-rain air. “He was under your command.”
Rhys eyes me hesitantly. “Yes.”
“And you were the last man to see him alive?” My eyes narrow, logging every micro-gesture. Every tell.
Nothing.
Maybe the graveness. The calm surface is a tell all its own. I clock that.
“Don’t know.”
My mouth goes dry. “How do you not know?”
He stares at me blankly—blinking steadily, pulse point at his neck even. Not flustered or nervous. That unnerves me.
“Because I don’t.”
I’ve had interviews like this before. Every word measured and weighed.
His face looks guarded. That’s the only thing I can read. But there’s something in his eyes I can’t name yet. Maybe guilt.
“You were supposed to extract him.” I lick my lips.
“Yes.”
“But that’s not what happened.”
He nods, eyes narrowing. He swallows, and I wait. There has to be more. When he looks at me, anger flashes behind his gaze. “Those are your hard-hitting questions? Why you risked your neck to come up here?”
I step back, stunned by his words. Only away from the fire do I realize my cheeks are glowing along with the front of me. “You could stop wasting my time. Tell me what I need to know.”
“You don’t need to know anything,” he says, voice hollow.
And there it is. The end of this conversation.
I’ve interviewed enough subjects to know. War lords. Criminals. Human traffickers. All reticent. All trying to control through language.
“Just so you know,” I say, though I’m likely wasting my breath. “I haven’t decided what you are yet. That’s why I’m here. To get your side of things.”
That stops him cold. He glares at me as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “What makes you think I care?”
I step closer, straining to get a good read on him. “Because I’m the only one still asking questions. The only one who wants to hear it from you.”
He shifts back on his heels, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “And what happens when I can’t give you what you want?”
That’s my worst fear. The one question I don’t want to consider. It’s as if he sees right through me.
Maybe he does.
“For Phoenix,” I say.
