Page 35 of Brass
“I’ll get the dye ready.” I match his detached tone as I slide out of bed.
The auburn hair color turns out to be a surprisingly flattering shade—rich and warm against my olive skin. Ryan applies it with the same expertise he showed while cutting my hair, but this time there’s none of last night’s gentleness. His touch is efficient, impersonal. Clinical.
I sit at the desk chair again, a towel draped around my shoulders, as he works the color through my newly shortened locks. In the mirror, I watch his face—the intense concentration, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his jaw tightens when our eyes accidentally meet in the reflection.
It shouldn’t feel like this—watching him focus on something so mundane. But every detail unsettles me. The steady pressure of his fingers massaging the dye into my scalp, strong hands gentled in a way that doesn’t match the man who dragged me through tunnels and shielded me from bullets. The heat of him standing close enough that his shoulder almost brushes mine. The way his lower lip pulls tight when he’s focused, making me wonder how it would feel caught between my teeth.
I drag my gaze away, only to have it wander back again, traitorous, hungry. Each normal thing—his patience, his stillness, his touch—feels amplified in the silence, until I can’tdecide if I want to lean back into his hands or bolt from the room before I give myself away.
“Rinse in twenty minutes,” he says, stripping off the plastic gloves. “I’ll get breakfast.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone again, leaving me alone with auburn dye and confused emotions I have no business feeling.
Forty-five minutes later, I barely recognize the woman in the mirror.
The butterfly cut Ryan gave me last night frames my face with soft, angled layers. Now auburn instead of dark brown, the color brings out golden flecks in my eyes I never noticed before. With the bruise at my temple partially concealed by artfully arranged strands, I look like a different person.
A stranger who might not be hunted by professional killers.
“Acceptable transformation.” Ryan assesses me with a clinically appraising gaze as I emerge from the bathroom. “The facial recognition algorithms will struggle with this.”
“Glad I meet your specifications,” I reply dryly.
A flash of something—amusement, perhaps—crosses his features before vanishing. “We move in five. Eat your breakfast.” He nods toward a paper bag on the table containing a breakfast sandwich.
I take a bite, suddenly ravenous. “What’s the plan?”
“We drive to Seattle. Continuously, with minimal stops..” He’s packing our meager belongings as he speaks, movements efficient and economical. “Cerberus has resources there. People who can help figure out what you’ve stumbled into.”
“And if I don’t want to go to Seattle?”
His hands pause briefly. “Not negotiable.”
“Nothing’s negotiable with you, is it?” I challenge, wrapping the remainder of my sandwich for the road.
Ryan zips the duffel bag closed with more force than necessary. “Your safety isn’t up for debate. Neither is mine. The protocols exist for a reason.”
“So I’m just supposed to blindly follow your?”
“Yes.” He straightens, fixing me with that arctic-blue stare.
One syllable, delivered with absolute certainty. As if compliance is the only possible option. As if my input is irrelevant to the equation.
The casual dismissal of my agency stings more than it should.
“That’s not how this works,” I inform him. “I don’t blindly follow anyone. Especially men who think they know what’s best for me.”
“When it comes to staying alive against professional operators?” He steps closer, voice dropping dangerously. “That’s exactly how this works, and I definitely know what’s best foryouand this situation.”
We’re standing toe-to-toe now, neither backing down. The electricity between us has nothing to do with attraction in this moment. It’s pure clash of wills, two immovable objects refusing to yield.
“We leave in two minutes,” he says finally, breaking the standoff. “Use the bathroom if you need to. It’s going to be a long drive.”
The rental car agency is twenty blocks from our hotel. We don’t take a direct route.
Ryan leads us through back alleys, side streets, even briefly through a hotel lobby and out its service entrance. The path feels random to me, but I recognize the strategy—breaking any potential surveillance tail with unpredictable movements.
“Is all this necessary?” I ask as we cut through a department store, entering through housewares and exiting through men’s suits.
