Page 30 of Brass
And then, with the same casual efficiency, he sets down a box of condoms.
The room suddenly feels too warm, the air too thick to breathe properly. I stare at the incongruous blue box, my mind short-circuiting as I process the implications.
The bastard.
After that almost-kiss against the wall, after the way he looked at me before whispering “good girl” in my ear like some kind of erotic command…Now this? A presumption so bold it borders on insulting.
Or would be insulting, if a traitorous part of me weren’t humming with something dangerously close to anticipation.
I press my fingers to my lips, remembering the ghost of pressure that never came. The kiss that didn’t happen. The heat of his body as he caged me against the wall. The surge of unwanted desire that flooded me when his voice dropped to that commanding whisper.
When I finally look up, Ryan is watching me intently, searching for a reaction. He wants one. Is waiting for it. The realization hits me with perfect clarity—this was deliberate. A test. A provocation. A way to unbalance me.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I force my expression into neutral disinterest, as if condoms are as mundane as toothpaste in this scenario.
“What next?” I ask, my voice impressively steady.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, something like disappointment flickering across his features at my non-reaction.
“Shower, then bed,” he replies, matching my casual tone. As if he hasn’t just detonated a grenade of implication between us. As if the word “bed” doesn’t carry a freight train of meaning in this context. “You first,” he adds, nodding toward the bathroom. “Clean your head wound. I’ll check it after.”
Just like that, we’re back to practical concerns. The professional protector and his reluctant charge. Nothing more complicated than that.
Except everything feels complicated now.
I gather the toiletries, then hesitate. “I’ll be quick.”
“Take your time,” he says, already turning his attention to the remaining items. “We’re secure for tonight.”
The bathroom is small but clean, with chipped white tiles and a shower curtain that has seen better days. I lock the doorbehind me, though I doubt it would stop Ryan for more than two seconds if he decided to come in.
The thought sends an unexpected shiver through me that I refuse to examine too closely.
I turn the shower on, letting steam fill the small space while I peel off my filthy clothes. Every movement is a negotiation with pain—ribs protesting, knee throbbing, muscles I didn’t know I had screaming from our tunnel crawl. The hot water beckons, promising relief.
As I step under the spray, I’m again shocked by my reflection in the cloudy mirror. The woman staring back is still a stranger—wild-eyed, blood crusted at her temple, but the fear that dominated her features earlier has been replaced by something more complex.
Determination, yes.
Wariness, absolutely.
But also, confusion that borders on wonder. As if she can’t quite believe the turn her life has taken in the past twelve hours.
The hot water is divine, washing away tunnel grime and sweat, easing the ache in my muscles if not my mind. I use the grapefruit shampoo, inhaling deeply as the familiar scent surrounds me. Ryan’s attention to this detail still unnerves me. Still matters more than it should.
Mid-rinse, a horrifying realization stops me cold—I forgot to bring clean clothes into the bathroom with me. They’re sitting on the table where Ryan left them, and there’s no way I’m putting the filthy ones back on.
I curse under my breath, weighing my options. I could call out, ask him to leave the clothes by the door. But that would mean admitting my mistake. Showing vulnerability. Giving him another opportunity to think I need rescuing.
No way in hell.
The only other option makes my heart race: emerge with just a towel, grab the clothes, and retreat back to the bathroom before he has time to react.
It’s a terrible plan. The worst. But it’s the only one I’ve got.
I finish showering, turn off the water, and dry myself with the rough hotel towel. My movements are brisk and efficient, trying to build momentum for what comes next. I wrap the towel securely around my body—it barely reaches mid-thigh, but it covers the essentials.
One deep breath. Two. I unlock the door and step back into the hotel room.
