Chapter 44 Nina
Nina
He tells me everything. About the confession Chris made over bourbon.
Vicente using sex as control, shaping Chris into someone who craved violence because it was the only version of being valued he knew.
How afterward, in bed, Chris hesitated. Wyatt saw it and let it go because he didn’t fully grasp what he was seeing.
Chris pushed through, insisted he could handle it. Was present at first. Careful, tender, real. Then Wyatt asked him to go harder, and Chris went somewhere else. Hands around Wyatt’s throat. Commands in a voice that wasn’t his.
My therapist brain traces the causal chain before I can stop it: Chris stated a boundary.
Wyatt honored it. And then Chris overrode his own limit—initiated, asked for consent, pushed himself past the line he’d drawn.
He was present until he wasn’t. And the trigger wasn’t force—it was Wyatt asking for more, and Chris dissociating into a conditioned response.
I don’t say any of this yet. But I can’t unhear it.
After—Chris surfacing, horrified. Wyatt telling him to leave and Chris going dark.
By the time he finishes, my coffee is cold and untouched. Wyatt hasn’t let go of my hand.
“I’m angry,” he says finally. “At myself for not stopping when I saw him pull back. For asking for more—” His voice drops. “And my body didn’t care about any of it. I came while he was choking me. While he wasn’t even there. What does that make me?”
The shame in his voice coats every word.
I stand, take his face in my hands, tilting it up until he has to meet my eyes.
“It makes you a person whose body responded to stimulation under extreme circumstances. That’s physiology, not consent.
” I hold his gaze. “But I heard what you just said, Wyatt. You saw him pull back and you didn’t stop.
You asked for more when he was already walking a line.
Those aren’t things I can just smooth over for you. ”
“You shouldn’t have to shrink me.”
“If you had a cut, I’d give you stitches. This is no different.” I hold his gaze. “Let me help. That’s what I do. I can’t absolve you, but I can share the burden.”
His eyes are wet. He blinks it back, but not before I see.
“I should have talked to him.” His voice is hollow. “I should have made him stay, made him explain, made him—something. But I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t—” He drags his free hand over his face. “And now I don’t know where he is.”
I pull out my phone and dial Chris’s number. It rings once, then cuts to voicemail.
“I’ve been trying all night,” Wyatt says quietly. “Calling, texting. Nothing.”
I try again anyway. Same result.
“He turned his phone off. Or it’s dead.”
His jaw tightens. We both know it’s not a dead battery. Chris was told to leave, and then he went dark. Phone off, unreachable. He was sent away believing he’d become the thing he fears most.
I set my phone down, fear coiled tight in my chest.
“I’m not angry at Chris,” I say, and Wyatt blinks. “He didn’t run. You told him to leave.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “I know I did.”
“And I’m not saying that to punish you. You were hurt and you were scared, and I understand why.” I hold his gaze. “But we need to be honest about what happened before we figure out what to do next.”
His jaw works. He doesn’t argue.
“Now tell me where your head is. Because I can see the fear in your eyes, and it goes beyond ‘where did he go.’“
His jaw works. His eyes are wet, and this time he doesn’t blink it back.
“What if he doesn’t come back?” The words come out raw.
I wait. Because that’s not really the question.
“What if he—” He stops. Tries again. “What if he does something—”
And there it is. The fear he can’t look at directly. The one he’s been circling all night.
“You’re afraid he’ll hurt himself.”
Wyatt’s face crumples. The sound that comes out of him isn’t quite a sob; it’s smaller than that, more wounded. The sound of having something named that you couldn’t bear to name yourself.
And then the tears come.
Not dramatic. He’s not a man who falls apart loudly. They just spill over, tracking down his cheeks while he tries to keep talking, his voice cracking around the edges but not stopping. He doesn’t wipe them away. Doesn’t apologize for them. Just lets them fall while the words keep coming.
“My stepfather,” he manages. “He—my mom begged him to talk to someone. But he couldn’t ask for help, couldn’t admit he was struggling, and he—” Another broken sound, but his eyes stay on mine even as the tears keep falling.
“I told Chris to leave. I sent him away when he was in crisis because I was hurt, and what if—”
“Hey.” I pull him toward me, and he comes, folding forward until his forehead rests against my shoulder, his breath ragged against my collarbone. I wrap my arms around him and hold on. “Hey. Listen to me.”
He’s shaking. Full-body tremors that I absorb against my chest.
“You know about my dad,” I say quietly, into his hair.
“So you know I understand this fear. I’ve lived it.
” I take a breath. “I was away at college when it happened. Chris and Callie were the ones who got me through. Their family had already been my refuge for years. Chris saw what losing my dad did to me. That’s one of the reasons I don’t think he’d go there himself. ”
He pulls back, searching my face. “You really think that’s enough to stop him?”
“I’ve worked with enough field operatives to know how they’re wired.
Compartmentalization isn’t just a skill for them; it’s survival.
Chris is good at it. Better than most.” I take a breath.
“And he said something to me at my dad’s funeral, about people who check out that way.
It wasn’t kind. I think I hated him for it, for about a week.
” The memory surfaces, sharp-edged. Chris in a dark suit, twenty-two years old and already so certain about everything.
Some doors you don’t get to walk back through.
“But now I think he meant it. It’s how he sees it.
And his own beliefs would work against him going there. ”
“But he’s different now. After everything Vicente—”
“He’s different,” I agree. “He’s not the same Chris he was before the op.
The damage is real, and we’re going to have to help him through it.
But at his core?” I hold his gaze. “He’s still the man who said those words.
Still the man who believes walking out that door is the coward’s way.
He’ll go dark. He’ll punish himself in a hundred different ways. But he won’t do that.”
Wyatt’s breath shudders out of him. He doesn’t look convinced, but he’s not spiraling anymore either. I’ll take it.
“We’re going to find him,” I say. “And when we do, we deal with whatever comes next. Together.”
He nods, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Before either of us can say anything else, the doorbell rings.
Lucia stands on the porch looking like she didn’t sleep either. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, and there’s a tension in her shoulders that I recognize from my security briefings. Something’s wrong beyond the obvious.
“We need to talk,” she says without preamble. “Is Booth here?”
“Inside.” I step back to let her in. “What’s going on?”
She doesn’t answer until we’re all in the living room. Wyatt stands by the fireplace, arms crossed, the turtleneck hiding everything but the exhaustion on his face. His eyes are dry but still red-rimmed. Lucia studies him for a long moment but doesn’t comment.
“Two things.” She pulls out her phone, swipes to a screen. “First: Longo left in a hurry last night. My cameras caught his vehicle at 11:47 PM. Driving like something was on fire.”
“We’re aware.” Wyatt’s voice is steadier now. Still raw, but functional.
“Are you? Because I also noticed he hasn’t come back.
” Lucia holds up a hand before he can respond.
“I’m not here to interfere with your personal business.
But your personal business becomes my business when it affects security.
And a principal’s partner going off-grid after a high-profile event is a security concern. ”
“He needed space,” I say. “He’ll be back.”
“I hope so. Because the second thing is more concerning.” She swipes to another screen.
“At 2:14 AM, our cameras caught a vehicle we don’t recognize.
Dark sedan, no plates visible. It parked three houses down with its lights off.
Someone got out. We caught movement on your perimeter cameras, shadows along the east side of the property.
Whoever it was spent about ten minutes looking at your house before getting back in the car and leaving. ”
The temperature in the room drops.
“That’s not your people,” I say.
“No. And it’s not Flores security either. I checked. Someone else is watching this house.”
Wyatt straightens. “Could be the threat we’ve been tracking. The one connected to the Serbian consolidation.”
“Could be.” Lucia tucks her phone away. “Could also be connected to whatever’s going on with your missing third. Either way, you’re all on alert as of now. No one leaves this property without checking in with me or Darius first.”
Chris is out there somewhere. Alone. Unreachable. And now someone is casing our house.
“We need to find him.” The urgency sharpens my voice.
“Already working on it.” Lucia’s expression softens fractionally. “Darius is running his vehicle through traffic cams. If he’s still in the city, we’ll find him.”
“Thank you.”
She nods and moves toward the door. I follow her.
“If Darius finds Chris,” I say quietly, “don’t approach him. Just let us know where he is.”
She nods and leaves.
I call Callie from the bedroom while Wyatt showers. He needs a minute alone, and I need to make calls without him hearing me manage the crisis.
“Nina?” Callie sounds groggy. “Everything okay?”