Chapter 7 Celeste #2
Ryan shakes his head. “I don’t know the specifics.
But I recognize the pattern. You’re carrying classified data that powerful people want contained.
Someone with insider information is typically the first casualty—a.k.a.
, your source. Then they clean up loose ends.
” He points at me. “You are a loose end.”
A chill crawls up my spine that has nothing to do with my wet clothes. He’s right, of course. That’s exactly what happened. But I haven’t told him any of this.
“You don’t know anything,” I manage, the denial weak even to my own ears.
“I know enough.” He moves toward the bathroom, speaking over his shoulder. “You’re a journalist. You have evidence of something dangerous enough to warrant a professional hit team. And you’re smart enough to know going to authorities isn’t an option because you can’t tell who’s compromised.”
He disappears into the bathroom, returning moments later with two white towels. He tosses one to me, which I catch reflexively.
“How do you know I’m a journalist?” My fingers clench the towel without using it. It’s a dumb question, seeing as I just told him I was working on an exposé, but I’m curious.
“You ask too many questions and notice everything.” He runs his towel over his hair, drying it with efficient movements. “Classic journalist behavior.”
I feel simultaneously exposed and oddly validated by his assessment. It’s unnerving to be read so easily by someone I’ve just met. Someone trained to observe as meticulously as I am.
The towel in my hands is rough but clean. I press it against my face, wiping away grime, wincing when it catches on the cut at my temple. When I lower it, the white fabric is streaked with dirt, mascara, and blood.
My ribs throb with each breath. My knee threatens to give out entirely. The adrenaline that’s been keeping me upright for hours is draining away, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
“We have nothing,” I realize aloud, looking around the room. “No clothes. No toiletries. Nothing.”
“I noticed.” Ryan’s tone is dry.
“So, what do we do? Sleep in wet, filthy clothes? I can’t—” I gesture vaguely at myself, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer practicality of our predicament. “I need a shower. Clean clothes. A toothbrush.”
“Basic necessities.” He’s already moving toward the door. “I’ll go.”
“I’m coming with you.” I straighten, ignoring the pain that shoots through my side.
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.” He takes 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. Even protectiveness. 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.