"You won't," I promise. "We go in, we dismantle the sequence, and we come home. I’ve mapped the pressure points. I know exactly where the seams are. We’re going to walk into the heart of that storm, and I’m going to hold the door open for you. Do you trust me?"
He closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against mine. The silence in the kitchen is heavy, charged with the weight of everything we aren't saying. Outside, the city of Redbrook hums with a sickness that’s about to reach its breaking point. I can hear a siren in the distance, a thin, wailing thread of panic.
"I trust you," he says, the words sounding like they're being torn out of him. "But if it goes wrong—if the pressure spikes—you leave. You drop the anchor and you run. Promise me, Asa."
"I promise we’re coming back," I say, dodging the literal requirement of his words. I’m a mathematician; I know how to qualify a statement. "Both of us. All three of us."
He lets out a long, shuddering breath and pulls me into him. It’s a desperate, crushing embrace, his face buried in the crook of my neck. He’s scenting me, marking me with the whiskey and cedar tang of his skin, as if he can weave a protective barrier out of sheer will.
"Sit," he murmurs against my skin. "You’ve been on your feet too long."
"Jorak, I’m fine. The plan—"
"The plan is done," he interrupts, his hands sliding down to my hips to guide me back to the chair. "Now you rest. I’m going to check the gear Silas dropped off. Then we move."
I let him fuss. I let him bring me a glass of water and adjust the cushion behind my back. He’s vibrating with a restless, nervous energy that I can only describe as nesting.
He kneels between my legs, his large hands resting on my knees. He stays there for a long time, just looking at me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.
"You’re wearing that look again," I say softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead.
"What look?"
"The one where you’re calculating how many people you’d have to kill to get us to the coast by morning."
A small, grim smile touches his lips. "The number is high, Asa. Very high."
"Stay focused on the number six," I say, tapping the map. "Six nodes. One night. That’s all we need."
He nods, but he doesn't move. His hand slides up, hesitating for a fraction of a second before his palm settles over my abdomen. He touches me like I’m made of glass, his fingers splayed wide. I can feel the warmth of him, the steady, rhythmic pulse of his power through the fabric of my sweater.
I cover his hand with mine, pressing it firmer against me. "We’re okay, Jorak. We’re right here."
He leans forward, pressing his face into my middle. I can feel the heat of his breath, the subtle vibration of a low, rumbling sound in his chest, a purr, or something very close to it.
I run my fingers through his hair, leaning back and closing my eyes. For a moment, the maps and the flares and Mercer’s cold, calculated cruelty don't exist.
"We have to move," I whisper after a few minutes. "The flare window in District Six is closing. If we miss the synchronization—"
"I know," he says, his voice muffled against me. He stays for one more second, a final moment of sanctuary, before he stands. The softness is gone, replaced by the hard, clinical edge of a man ready for war. He reaches for his tactical vest, the one with the ESA patches ripped off, leaving only the jagged scars in the fabric.
I stand up, moving to the archive records one last time. I pick up a pen and circle the final coordinates for the central grid. Myhand doesn't shake. The risk is high, the margin for error is non-existent, but the equation finally balances.
I look at Jorak. He’s checking the charge on his suppression cuffs, the ones he’s modified to act as conductors instead of cages.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready," I say as I tuck the maps into my bag and lead the way to the door.
Jorak
Beside me, Asa is a shadow in the dim emergency lighting, his breathing rhythmic and intentional. He is counting. I know he’s counting because his fingers are tapping a sequence against the strap of his bag.
I reach out, my hand finding the small of his back. Through the thin fabric of his jacket, he radiates heat. He leans into the touch for a fraction of a second before straightening. He doesn't look at me, but I feel the shift in him, the way his pulse steadies just because I’m close.
"We’re three minutes behind Silas’s diversion," Asa whispers. His voice is dry, brittle as old parchment, but it doesn't shake. "Mercer will have the internal sensors bypassed by now. He’ll be looking for the drop in the node pressure, not us."
"Let him look," I say, my voice a low rumble that vibrates in my own chest. "If he finds us, he finds me first. You stay behind the line, Asa. No matter what happens, you don't step into the suppression radius until I’ve cleared the primary discharge."
