Page 29 of Brass
Our code. A small piece of structure in the chaos we’re navigating. A tiny fragment of the trust we’ll need to build if we’re going to survive what’s coming.
I wait, plastic bags rustling at my side, and I feel something I rarely experience before an operation: uncertainty. Not about our tactical situation or our next moves.
About her. About us. About whether I can maintain the professional distance this situation demands when everythingabout Celeste Hart makes me want to close that distance entirely.
TEN
Celeste
I pacethe hotel room like a caged animal, checking my watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Eighteen minutes since Ryan left. Two minutes until I’m supposed to call that mysterious number. Two minutes until I admit he might not be coming back.
My ribs throb with each turn, a constant reminder of everything that’s happened tonight. The crash. The men in the subway. The tunnels. And Ryan Ellis, materializing in my life like some kind of avenging angel with ice in his veins and violence in his hands.
The silence of the room presses against my ears. I strain to hear footsteps in the hallway, any indication that he’s returning. Or worse—that someone else has found us.
Three sharp knocks on the door. A pause. Two more knocks.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by irritation at feeling relieved. I shouldn’t care whether he comes back. Shouldn’t need him. But I do, and that admission burns through my carefully constructed independence like acid.
I check the peephole first—not completely naive—and see Ryan’s broad-shouldered silhouette, plastic bags dangling from his hands. I unlock the door, stepping back as he enters.
His eyes scan the room first—checking corners, sight lines, potential threats—before landing on me. There’s a slight relaxation in his shoulders when he confirms I’m still here, that I didn’t attempt another escape. The fact that he expected me to stay sends a contradictory thrill through me. He knows I’m stubborn, yet he trusted me anyway.
“Good choice,” he says, acknowledging my decision to remain without actually praising it. His voice carries that same commanding tone that irritates and intrigues me in equal measure.
“I’m not an idiot,” I reply, lifting my chin. “Just independent.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Same thing sometimes.”
He moves to the small round table by the window and begins unpacking his purchases. Items emerge from plastic bags and are arranged in neat, categorical rows. Men’s clothes on the left—plain, functional T-shirts and sweatpants. Basic necessities without personality or flair.
On the right, he places women’s clothing—and I find myself momentarily stunned. Not by the practicality, which I expected, but by the thoughtfulness. Soft cotton T-shirts in deep green and navy that would actually complement my coloring. A charcoal gray hoodie that looks both warm and flattering. Black leggings that will be gentle on my injured knee.
Basic, yes. But not thoughtless.
“How did you know my size?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Ryan doesn’t look up from his methodical unpacking. “Visual assessment. Years of practice.”
Of course. He’s been assessing everything about me since the moment we met. Why would my clothing size be any different?
Toiletries come next—toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant. All arranged with an almost obsessive precision that speaks to a mind that values order above all.
Then he pulls out a bottle of shampoo and places it in the center of the table.
I freeze.
It’s my brand. Not just my brand—my exact scent. Grapefruit and mandarin, the citrus blend I’ve used for years. A small, inconsequential detail about myself that somehow this stranger captured perfectly.
“How did you…?” I don’t finish the question.
He glances up, blue eyes meeting mine with unsettling directness. “You smell like citrus. I found the match.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest—a skip followed by a gallop. He noticed how I smell. Remembered it. Sought it out specifically among dozens of options.
The intimacy of this gesture strikes me harder than if he’d touched me. It reveals an attention to detail that feels almost invasive. As if he’s been cataloging parts of me I didn’t offer.
Next come the feminine products—pads and tampons, the exact type I requested. He places them on the table without comment, without embarrassment, like they’re as neutral as toothpaste or shampoo.
