Page 18 of Brass
I turn to face her fully, letting her see the absolute certainty in my expression. “Because protection is what we do. And whoever wants you dead badly enough to send pros after you just made a critical mistake.”
“What’s that?”
“They made it personal.”
Her eyes widen slightly at the intensity in my voice. The cab turns onto Georgetown Street, approaching our destination. Infifteen minutes, this will become an official Cerberus operation—protocols, procedures, professional distance.
But for now, in the warm confines of this taxi, with rain drumming on the roof and her eyes locked with mine, nothing about this feels professional.
And that might be the most dangerous development of all.
SEVEN
Celeste
The fluorescent lightsin the hotel lobby flicker, casting sickly shadows across worn carpet the color of trampled autumn leaves. My soaked clothes cling to my body, water dripping steadily from my hair to form small puddles at my feet. I shift my weight to my right leg, keeping pressure off my throbbing left knee. Each subtle movement sends jagged pain through my ribs.
Breathing hurts. Standing hurts. Existing hurts.
Ryan cuts an imposing figure at the front desk, his broad shoulders squared despite our ordeal. While I look like a drowned rat, he somehow manages to appear merely weathered—like someone caught in a storm rather than someone who crawled through maintenance tunnels and fought off professional killers. The unfairness of this grates on my already frayed nerves.
“Just for tonight,” he tells the desk clerk, sliding what looks like three hundred-dollar bills across the counter. Cash. No credit card. No ID. Another red flag to add to my growing collection.
The clerk—a middle-aged man with thinning hair and perpetually surprised eyebrows—glances between us. His eyeslinger on the dirt streaking my face and the blood matting my hair at the temple, then slide to Ryan’s composed expression. A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Long night?” he asks, not really asking.
I can read the assumptions forming behind his eyes. Domestic dispute. Lovers’ quarrel. Maybe he thinks Ryan’s some jealous boyfriend who dragged me through hell. The thought bubbles up hysterical laughter that I barely manage to swallow.
If only it were that simple.
“One room or two?” The clerk’s fingers hover over his keyboard.
“Two,” I say immediately, the word sharp and definitive.
At precisely the same moment, Ryan says, “One.”
We lock eyes. My chin lifts in challenge.
“Two rooms,” I repeat, gritting my teeth. “Separate rooms.”
Ryan steps closer to me—not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes never leave mine as he says to the clerk, “One.”
The single word lands with the weight of a command. No explanation. No argument. Just absolute certainty.
I open my mouth to protest, but he gives me a look that stops the words in my throat. It’s not threatening, exactly. More like—resolved. As if the matter is already settled, my input irrelevant to the final decision. A muscle in his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“One room,” the clerk confirms, his eyebrows climbing higher as he observes our silent standoff. “King or two queens?”
“Two beds,” I interject quickly before Ryan can respond, desperation creeping into my voice.
Ryan doesn’t contradict me this time, which I count as a small victory until the clerk winces apologetically.
“Sorry, ma’am. Got ahead of myself. Only kings available tonight. Convention in town.” He doesn’t sound particularlysorry. In fact, there’s that knowing smile again, like he’s witnessing a familiar scene playing out for the thousandth time.
I want to scream. Want to explain that I’m not what he thinks—not some conquest or girlfriend or victim. I’m a journalist with a Pulitzer nomination. I’ve interviewed warlords and corrupt politicians. I’ve exposed human trafficking rings and corporate fraud. I don’t belong here, soaked and trembling in a budget hotel lobby, at the mercy of a stranger’s decisions.
But those accomplishments feel as distant as another life. Because right now, that’s exactly what I am—soaked, trembling, and at someone else’s mercy.
