Chapter 34 Nina #2
It’s not nothing. It’s so far from nothing that my throat tightens and I have to press my lips together before I embarrass myself again. I pick up a half and take a bite. Buttery, crisp, the cheese stretching in that perfect way.
“What else are you making?” I manage around the next bite, once I trust my voice.
“Arroz con pollo. Sort of.” Chris moves back to the stove, peeks beneath the lid of the pot on one burner, allowing a billow of aromatic steam to rise into the air. “Modified version.”
“Since when do you make arroz con pollo?”
His shoulders tighten, just barely. “Picked it up in Mexico.”
The words land flat, deliberate. A door cracking open and immediately bracing to slam shut.
Wyatt shoots me a look—let it go—and redirects. “He’s being modest. It smells incredible.”
Whatever door cracked open does slam shut. Chris replaces the lid with more force than necessary.
“I need to make a call,” he says abruptly. “Check in with McIntyre about tomorrow’s debrief.” He glances at Wyatt. “Can you—”
“I’ve got it.”
Chris nods, already moving toward the door. Doesn’t look at me. Just goes.
The silence settles, awkward and sharp-edged.
“Sorry,” Wyatt says, taking over. “He’s not trying to be an asshole.”
“I know.”
“He just—” Wyatt stops, recalibrates. “There are things about that operation he can’t talk about. Things even I don’t know the full scope of.”
“But you know some of it.”
His hands still. “Some.”
“And it’s bad.”
“Yeah, Nina. It’s bad.”
I want to push. Want to demand details, explanations, the truth about what happened to Chris during those years. But the exhaustion in Wyatt’s face stops me.
“He’ll tell you when he’s ready,” Wyatt continues, stirring the rice. “Or he won’t. But it’s not my story to share.”
“I understand.”
Do I though? I understand the words. The concept of boundaries, of respecting someone’s trauma timeline. But understanding doesn’t stop the frustration building in my chest. Doesn’t stop the questions multiplying.
Wyatt glances at my empty plate. “Ready for round two?”
“God, yes.”
He smiles, some of the strain easing from his expression. “Good. Chris really did do something amazing with this chicken.”
I watch him work, efficient and competent. Nikita has relocated to the windowsill, no longer interested in supervision now that the humans have everything handled.
Chris doesn’t come back. Not while Wyatt plates the food, not while he sets it down at the table, not while I take the first bite and make an involuntary sound of appreciation because holy hell, it really is incredible.
“Right?” Wyatt says, grinning. “Man’s been holding out on us.”
“Apparently.”
We eat in comfortable silence. The food settles heavy and good in my stomach, pushing back the lingering nausea from anesthesia. Wyatt’s presence across from me is steady, undemanding. Just there.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “For today. For all of it.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“I want to.”
He reaches across, squeezes my hand. “Then you’re welcome.”
My eyes are getting heavy again, the post-meal drowsiness combining with whatever’s still in my system. Wyatt sees it, stands.
“Back to bed with you.”
“I can walk.”
“I know. Doesn’t mean you have to.”
He helps me up anyway, guides me down the hall. Nikita materializes from somewhere, racing ahead to claim her spot on my bed first.
“Bossy thing,” I murmur.
“You’re rubbing off on her.”
I’m asleep before I can form a response.
Thirst pulls me awake. My mouth is desert-dry, tongue stuck to my palate. The bedside glass is empty—I must have drained it earlier without realizing.
I check my phone. 2:47 AM.
Carefully, testing each movement, I ease out of bed. Nikita grumbles but doesn’t fully wake. The house is dark except for the nightlight in the hallway, and I move toward the kitchen by memory and dim illumination.
Voices stop me halfway there. Low and male and coming from the living room.
I should announce myself. Should not eavesdrop on a private conversation.
I stay in the shadows and listen.
“—can’t keep avoiding it forever,” Wyatt’s saying.
“I’m not avoiding anything.” Chris’s voice, defensive.
“You literally left the room when she asked about Mexico.”
A long pause. “There are things I can’t talk about.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Both.”
Silence. Then Chris again, quieter: “Deep cover means becoming someone else completely. Letting the op reshape you until you’re not sure where the cover ends and you begin.”
“I understand—”
“No. You don’t.” Not angry, just factual.
“You’ve run ops. But you’ve never—” He stops.
Starts again. “With Vicente, it wasn’t just pretending to be loyal.
Wasn’t just feeding him what he wanted to hear.
He made me into something. Someone who craved the control he had over me.
And I let him. Because it’s what the op required. ”
My breath catches. I press closer to the wall, heart hammering. Pieces fall into place. I could kick myself for not figuring out sooner that Chris’s deep cover op was Vicente.
“He broke you down to build you back up,” Wyatt says, understanding threading through the words.
“He broke me down to remake me into something useful to him. And the fucked up part is how good I got at playing that role. How much I wanted what he was giving me, even knowing it was poison.”
“That’s not your fault. That’s what trauma bonding does—”
“I know what it’s called.” Chris’s voice hardens. “Doesn’t make it any less true. Doesn’t change the fact that some part of me still—”
He cuts off. I hold my breath, willing him to finish.
“Still what?” Wyatt prompts gently.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Chris—”
“I said forget it.” A pause. “The point is, I can’t talk to Nina about this. She’s his therapist. The professional boundaries alone—”
“She’s your girlfriend, Chris. At some point that has to count for something.”
“Does it? Because clearance issues aside, telling her any of this compromises her ability to do her job. Contaminates every session she has with him. Makes her second-guess her instincts.”
“Or it gives her context she needs to protect herself.”
“From what? Vicente’s not going to hurt her. Not while she’s useful.”
“And when she stops being useful?”
The silence that follows is answer enough.
The right thing to do is walk in, get my water, face whatever consequences come from obviously eavesdropping. But I’m frozen, trying to process what I just heard.
Chris and Vicente. A relationship that went beyond operational necessity. Trauma bonding. Control. Something Chris still craves despite knowing it’s poison.
“She’s going to find out eventually,” Wyatt says. “Better it comes from you than from someone else.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s better if she never knows the full picture. If she can keep seeing Vicente as just a complex man trying to redeem himself, instead of understanding what he’s capable of. What he turned me into.”
He stops. The silence stretches taut.
I take a breath. Step out of the shadows.