Page 43 of Sawyer
“Layering defenses. Loving you. Not necessarily in that order.”
The wordloveslips so naturally it stuns me. I lift my head, search his face. No flinch. No back-pedal. Just truth shining in those gray eyes.
I tuck closer, letting his heartbeat lull me. Tomorrow will bring forensic calls, suspect lists, maybe another threat. But tonight, inside steel-sealed walls on a lonely mountaintop, I finally feel like the attack dog at my side and the tempest in my chest are on the same side.
And that, I decide as sleep steals me, is a masterpiece worth any fight.
17
Sawyer
08:04 — Safe-house rec room
Morning sun cuts through clerestory windows, scattering trapezoids of light across the padded floor. Camille bounces on her bare toes in black yoga pants and my charcoal BRAVO tee tied at the back, determined to look fierce even with cobalt streaks still ghosting her forearm. She stretches her wrists, watching me set a metronome pulse on the smart speaker—steady, not frantic.
“Self-defense 101,” I say, motioning her to the center mat. “Goal isn’t to trade blows. It’s to break contact and run.”
“Run?” She shakes her head, braid loosening. “That’s anticlimactic.”
“Survival usually is.” I demonstrate a basic stance—feet triangular, weight on the balls of my feet. “Show me.”
She mirrors with surprising accuracy. “Like this?”
I nod my approval. “First move is the wrist release. Predator grabs your arm? Rotate toward the thumb, and yank free. Strike soft tissue, and then retreat.” I reach gently, clasp her right wrist. Her pulse flutters against my fingers—impossibly distracting, but I lock focus. “Ready?”
She inhales, rotates, yanks, then snaps her elbow down—textbook. She springs back, eyes bright. “Again!”
We cycle through variations: single-hand choke defense, knee strike to groin, heel stomp to instep. Each repetition she grows more confident, laughter slipping through grunts.
After a combo that ends with her knee nearly grazing my abdomen, she backs off, panting. “How’d I do?”
I wipe a bead of sweat from her brow with my thumb. “If I were the perp, I’d rethink life choices.”
She grins. Then—without warning—lunges, hooks my dominant wrist, and executes the thumb-break release perfectly. I let it happen, half proud, half aroused. She skips away, raising her fists in mock triumph.
“Unexpected attack,” she taunts.
“Solid tactic,” I admit. “Except you forgot the retreat.”
Two strides and I catch her waist, spinning her until her back kisses the padded wall. She laughs breathlessly. Our faces hover inches apart, heat pulsing. I want to kiss her, but the comm in my ear crackles.
“Andersson to?One. Morning sweep complete. Thermal clear, seismic negative; drones on loop.”
“Copy,” I reply, not moving from Cam’s stare. “Status green.”
Cam taps the radio bud on my collar, playful. “Tell him I almost neutralized you.”
“Fifty-fifty,” I murmur, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. She knocks my hand playfully, hearts still thudding.
Rae’s voice chimes in next. “Kitchen perimeter set. I made breakfast burritos. Get them before Andersson inhales the tray.”
Cam’s eyes light. “Survival fuel.”
09:12 — Kitchen island
Rae leans against the counter, pink buzz-cut poking from a baseball cap that readsTrust But Verify.Andersson towers nearby, halfway through a burrito the size of his forearm.
“How’s our ninja in training?” Rae asks as Cam reaches for salsa.
