Page 58 of Brass
He cocks his head, then smiles. “Eager are we?”
“For one more night on the road? Yes.” I bite my lower lip, knowing how I sound.
The corner of his mouth quirks up in that almost-smile I’m beginning to adore. “One more night sharing a bed,” he clarifies.
“Yes.” I press a kiss to his chest, right above his heart.
His laughter is unexpected—a rich, warm sound I’ve never heard before. It transforms his face, softening the hard edges, revealing glimpses of who Ryan Ellis might be when he’s not keeping the world at bay.
We shower together, a practical decision that quickly becomes anything but when his hands replace mine on the soap, sliding over curves and planes with thorough attention that leaves me gasping against the tile.
TWENTY
Ryan
Steam still clingsto the bathroom mirror as I finish dressing, the lingering heat a reminder of what transpired in the shower moments ago. Celeste’s soft gasps as my hands replaced hers with the soap. The way she arched against the tile when I pressed into her from behind. The water running cold before we noticed, too consumed with each other to care.
Now she’s gathering our few belongings, movements efficient despite the exhaustion evident in the slight droop of her shoulders. We need to be on the road soon. We need to maintain our schedule and security protocols. Need to function as if last night—this morning—hasn’t fundamentally altered everything between us.
I check my watch: 7:23 AM. Later start than planned. I don’t regret it.
The sight of her, hair still damp, wearing clothes I selected days ago, sends a surge of possessiveness through me that should be alarming. This wasn’t the mission. Wasn’t the plan. Wasn’t within operational parameters.
Mine. The word surfaces unbidden, resonating with unexpected force. When did Celeste Hart transition from assignment to something else entirely?
The subway platform? The first hotel room? The tunnels? I can’t pinpoint the exact moment. Just the culmination—her body beneath mine, her voice calling my name, her complete surrender as she came apart at my command.
I glance at the floor beside the bed, where our clothes lay scattered in uncharacteristic disorder until moments ago. Evidence of the control I finally relinquished. The barriers I allowed to fall. I should regret it—the breakdown of professional distance, the compromise of tactical focus.
I don’t.
I feel more focused, more centered than I have since this extraction began. The tension that has been building for days has finally found release, but vigilance remains—sharpened, even. Because now I’m not protecting an asset or a civilian. I’m protecting what’s mine.
The realization should concern me. Emotional investment compromises objectivity—first rule of protective operations. But as I watch her folding the last of her clothes into our shared bag, I recognize that this particular rule was broken long before last night.
It was broken the moment I diverted from my mission to save her on that platform. The moment I called Ghost instead of the local authorities. The moment I decided to personally drive her across the country rather than hand her off to another operative.
My brothers in arms would call it fate, our paths intersecting at that precise moment. Ghost would call it a tactical vulnerability. My sisters would say I’ve finally met my match.
They’re all partially right.
“Ready?” Celeste asks, zipping the duffel closed. Her eyes meet mine with a directness that hasn’t changed, despite everything else that has.
I nod, conducting one final sweep of the room—habit rather than necessity. “One more day on the road.
“One more night,” she adds, something knowing in her smile.
My arm slides around her waist as we head for the door, a possessive gesture I don’t bother to analyze. One more day. One more night. Then everything changes.
The Montana landscape rolls past the windows, mountains giving way to plains, then rising again at the Idaho border. Celeste dozes in the passenger seat, her body angled toward me even in sleep. We’ve been on the road for four hours, maintaining good time despite a later start than usual.
I check the mirrors—clear. We’ve implemented sufficient evasive measures that I’m confident our trail is cold. The truck stop coffee beside me has gone lukewarm, forgotten as I calculate distances, fuel stops, optimal routes.
With minimal stops and trading driving shifts, we could reach Cerberus headquarters by midnight. It would be the tactical choice—maintaining momentum, minimizing exposure time, getting Celeste into secure facilities as quickly as possible.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I dismiss the option. One more night. One more night with her before everything becomes complicated by briefings, threat assessments, and team dynamics.
One more night to have her completely to myself.
