9
ELI
Iwake to an empty bed and the smell of coffee drifting through the compound.
Helena's gone. Probably back in the work mode, compartmentalizing what happened between us like the professional she is. Smart. Practical. What the situation requires.
That doesn't stop the part of me that wants to track her down, back her against a wall, and remind her why she was in my bed last night.
I push the thought down—not aside, down—where it sits like heat in my gut. I get up. Get dressed. Pull on tactical gear out of habit even though the immediate threat has passed. The contractors won't be back this soon, not after last night's failure. They'll regroup, reassess, plan something bigger.
Which means we're on a clock, and I'm wasting time thinking about Helena's mouth.
I head toward the kitchen. Voices carry from the infirmary. Helena's low murmur, then Traci's response—her pencil scratching against paper. I can't make out Helena’s words but the tone is gentle. Coaxing rather than interrogating. The approach Traci needs.
Finn's at the coffee maker when I walk in, favoring his wounded shoulder but moving normally otherwise. He pours a cup, slides it across the counter toward me without comment.
"How bad is it?" I ask.
"Graze. Helena checked it. I'll live." He takes a drink from his own cup. "Cara's running background checks on everyone connected to the network. Cross-referencing against law enforcement databases."
"She find anything?"
"Not yet. But she's got that look. The one that says she's onto something."
I take the coffee. Black, strong, what I need. The taste cuts through the fog of too little sleep and too much adrenaline still cycling through my system from last night's fight.
Last night's fight, and what came after.
"Where is she?" I ask.
"Communications room. Been in and out of there for hours." Finn leans against the counter, studying me with an assessment that comes from reading people in high-stakes situations. "Everything okay?"
"Fine."
"Helena?"
"Ask her yourself."
Something shifts in his expression. Amusement, maybe. Understanding. He doesn't push. Just nods and goes back to his coffee. Finn's good at this. He knows when to observe, when to ask, when to leave things alone.
I head toward the communications room, but voices stop me outside the infirmary. Helena and Traci. The door's cracked open enough to hear, and I should give them privacy for this.
I should.
I don't.
Tactical instinct overrides courtesy. I need to know what Traci saw, what she heard. I need to understand the threat before it comes back with reinforcements.
"I know this is hard," Helena says, and her voice carries that calm professional tone that works on patients in exam rooms. "But anything you remember could help us stop them from coming back. From hurting anyone else the way they hurt you."
Silence. Then the sound of pen on paper. Traci's notebook.
"You're safe here," Helena continues. "Your uncle made sure of that. But safe doesn't last if we can't identify who's running the network. We need names, Traci. Descriptions. Anything that helps us understand who we're fighting."
More writing. Longer this time.
I lean against the doorframe, listening. Helena's good at this. Better than I'd be. She knows how to coax information without pushing, how to make Traci feel safe enough to share details that terrify her.
