Page 21 of Brass
He turns back, eyebrow raised. “No, you’re not.”
“I need things. Personal things.” I lift my chin, daring him to make me elaborate on exactly what feminine products I might require. “And I’m not giving you my sizes.”
“You’re not leaving this room.” His voice hardens. “Those men are still looking for you. Every minute in public is a risk.”
“So I’m a prisoner now?” The question comes out sharper than intended.
“You’re a protectee.” He emphasizes the distinction. “And you’re injured, exhausted, and still in shock, whether you realize it or not.”
“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically.
“Your hands are shaking. Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing is shallow. Classic signs of shock and trauma.” Hetakes a step closer. “You can barely stand. And we both know if you sit down on that bed, you won’t get back up.”
He’s right. Again. The bed’s gravitational pull is almost irresistible. My entire body screams for rest. But admitting weakness to this man feels like surrendering the last scrap of control I have.
“I need—” My voice falters.
“I know what you need.” His tone softens, surprising me. “Medium top, small bottoms based on your frame. Toothbrush. Hair products. Something for pain. Anything else, you can tell me.”
I blink, startled by his accuracy.
“Write down anything specific. I’ll be quick.” He produces a hotel notepad and pen from the nightstand, offering them to me.
My hand brushes his as I take the pad. The brief contact sends an unexpected shiver across my skin, which I blame on cold, wet clothes.
I scrawl a few items, hesitating before adding “heavy flow tampons” to the list. Let him deal with that awkwardness. I thrust the pad back at him.
He reads it without reaction, tucking it into his pocket. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“How will I know it’s you?”
“Three knocks. Pause. Two knocks.” He moves to the door, then pauses. “Twenty minutes max. If I’m not back, there’s trouble.”
This confirms what I’ve suspected—we’re still in active danger. The hotel is a temporary sanctuary, not safety.
“What do I do if you don’t come back?” The question slips out, more vulnerable than I intended.
His eyes lock with mine. For a moment, I glimpse something beyond the professional exterior—concern, perhaps. Evenprotectiveness. Then it’s gone, shuttered behind his composed expression.
He tears off a corner of the hotel notepad and quickly writes a number. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, call this. Tell them ‘Brass is compromised.’ They’ll send extraction.”
He holds out the paper. Our fingers brush as I take it, and I resist the urge to pull back too quickly.
Brass. His call sign, I remember from our earlier conversation. The nickname feels incongruously warm for someone so controlled, so cold in his efficiency.
“What if I leave?” The question is half challenge, half genuine consideration. “Walk out after you go?”
His expression doesn’t change, but something dangerous flickers in his eyes. “You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you’re smart.” He says this with absolute certainty. “And smart people don’t throw away their only lifeline when they’re drowning.”
Before I can respond, he slips out the door, closing it firmly behind him. The lock clicks automatically.
EIGHT
Celeste
