This.
Being the person someone depends on. I want to tell her I’m not built for gentle. That I’m all sharp edges and jokes and violence aimed at people who deserve it. That I’m terrified of screwing this up. Instead, I give her the truth I can hold steady. “I’m good at keeping promises,” I say.
Salem’s gaze searches mine for a long second. Then she nods once. “Okay,” she whispers. “Then don’t let me disappear again.”
My chest goes tight. I force my mouth into something that resembles confidence. “Not a chance,” I say. “If anyone tries, I’ll make them hurt.”
Her lips part slightly. Her eyes drop to my mouth. And I have to look away before I do something stupid like kiss her in front of Dean Maddox and an entire room of lethal people.
Sawyer tosses me a set of keys. “Take SUV number 4, it’s in the garage,” he says.
I catch them. “Thanks.”
He pauses, then adds quietly, “Don’t screw it up.”
“I never do,” I say automatically.
Sawyer’s eyebrow lifts.
I amend, “Not often.”
Salem watches Arrow and Juno share a quick look—soft, intimate, full of trust—then looks back at me. “Okay,” she says again, like she’s convincing herself. “Let’s go.”
We walk out with the duffel and a burner phone. Normally I’d be playing video games, maybe helping Maddox Security out here and there, but not this Tuesday.
No, instead, I’m smack dab in the middle of an op. An op that could cost Salem her life. I won’t let that happen. Not on my watch.
Not ever.
FIVE
SALEM
The first thing nobody tells you about getting rescued is this: Once the adrenaline wears off, your body starts sending in complaints like it’s a customer service department with a personal vendetta. My muscles ache in places I didn’t know could ache. My hands won’t stop trembling, like they’re trying to shake the memory out of my bones. And my stomach… My stomach is a full-blown riot.
I sit curled on the passenger seat of the SUV, wrapped in Ozzy’s hoodie like it’s armor, knees tucked up because it makes me feel smaller, safer. The cab smells like clean leather and pine air freshener and—this is going to sound insane—Ozzy.
Not cologne. Not fake “man” scent. Just… him. Warm skin. Soap. The faintest trace of something smoky, like he’s been near fire and came away untouched.
He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the console, relaxed like he’s not on a mission with a target in the passenger seat. Maybe that’s what makes him so dangerous. He looks like he belongs anywhere. Even here. Even now.
The road unspools in front of us, dark and empty, flanked by sleepy trees and the occasional set of headlights passing like ghosts. The hills rise in the distance, black shapes under a moon that feels too bright.
Safehouse Rainmaker. Fully stocked. Quiet. Hidden. A place I’m supposed to breathe again. But breathing is hard when my stomach is trying to eat my spine. I press a hand to my middle and let out a quiet groan.
Ozzy’s eyes flick to me, and then back to the road. “You hurt?”
“No,” I say, then immediately betray myself when my stomach makes an aggressive sound that could be mistaken for an animal growl.
Ozzy’s mouth twitches.
I glare at my own body. “Don’t.”
“It’s fine,” he says, voice low, amused. “Your stomach’s just… expressing itself.”
“I haven’t eaten since—” I stop, because time has become a blurry smear of fear and controlled breathing and pretending I wasn’t starving. “I don’t even know.”
His expression changes instantly. The humor drains, replaced by something sharp, protective, and quietly furious. “Okay,” he says. “We’re fixing that.”