Pack clothes.
I huff and shove my hands into my sleeves, rubbing at my forearms again like I can scrub off the memory of fingers around my throat.
“So,” I say, dragging the word out until it’s nearly a growl. “We’re doing what she wants.”
Nathaniel doesn’t even bother with comfort lies.
“She said she’ll let us know soon where that couple is,” he murmurs. “So we should pack to be ready.”
“Mhm.” I let the sound drip. “Like good little bitches.”
I cross the room and drop onto the bed in a graceless flop. Meanwhile, Nathaniel opens the wardrobe.
“What do we even pack for something like this?” I ask. “We don’t know where those killers will be. Or what they’ll be doing. Or if they’re armed. Or if they—“
“If they’re expecting an ambush,” he finishes for me without looking up.
I blink.
I mean… yeah. There is a possibility they might be paranoid about being chased, or something. You never know.
He reaches in, checks a shelf, and sets something aside.
Then, flat as fact, he says, “No one knows exactly everything going into a kill.”
I stare at him.
Slowly, I cock a brow.
He must feel the shift in the air, because he pauses, and turns his head just enough to look at me over his shoulder.
“What?” he asks.
“Youdon’t know everything going into a kill?”
Nathaniel’s lips do something that might, in another person, count as a smile. Just a faint tilt at one corner. It makes him feel like less of a statue and more of a man.
Only it doesn’t last.
In hindsight, there’s nothing Nathaniel could do to lose that petrine quality in my eyes. He is and always will be half-made of it. Even when he kisses me, even when I feel the heat of his body and take stupid comfort in the proof that he’s alive, there’s always that underside of him that doesn’t move. An immovable essence.
”Idoknow everything,“ he admits at last. “But that’s only because I make sure to spend enough time and resources finding it out.”
He turns fully then, leaning back against the wardrobe frame.
“Others,” he continues, “realistically don’t achieve that level of detail.” His gaze flicks to the side, measuring the room. “We don’t have the luxury of recon right now.”
The urge to smile claws at me. I don’t fight it.
“Is that eating you up?” I ask.
He watches me for a beat. Feels weird. Like if I move first, I’ll lose something.
“What do you think?”
“Yeah,” I say, and shift deeper onto the bed, propping myself up on my elbows. “It does.”
“More than you could imagine,” he agrees.
