CHAPTER 5 #2
"It was designed to repel a localized attack," he says, his voice flat. "But it is a glass box in the middle of a forest. If they bring heavy explosives, the polycarbonate will eventually fracture. It is a defensive position, not a bunker."
"So we’re sitting ducks."
"We are fortified ducks," he corrects dryly.
I blink, completely caught off guard. I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, but his expression remains entirely serious.
"Did you just make a joke?" I ask, my voice hushed in genuine shock.
He doesn't look at me. He picks up a cloth and starts wiping down a spare magazine. "I stated a tactical fact."
"No, you didn't. You made a joke. A terrible, dad-level joke about ducks." I let out a short, breathless laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally breaking through the terror. "Oh my god. You do have a sense of humor. It’s just buried under layers of trauma and expensive tailoring."
He finally glances at me. The hard, lethal lines of his face soften, just for a fraction of a second. It’s not a smile—not even close—but the tension around his eyes eases.
"Check the pizza," he says.
"Don't change the subject," I tease, turning around to look through the oven glass.
The cheese is bubbling, turning a dark, greasy orange.
"You know, if we survive this, I might actually buy you a beer.
Just to see what happens when you consume alcohol.
Do you loosen up, or do you just start reciting military manuals? "
"I don't drink on the job," he says.
"Of course you don't." I grab an oven mitt and pull the baking sheet out, dropping it onto the stove. The smell of cheap pepperoni and baked dough fills the kitchen. It smells like a college dorm room at 3 AM.
I don't bother looking for plates. I grab a pizza cutter from the drawer, slice the pizza into uneven triangles, and pick up a piece with my bare hand. It’s entirely too hot. The cheese burns the roof of my mouth, but I don't care. The rush of carbohydrates and salt hits my system like a drug.
I lean against the counter, chewing quickly.
I look over at Callum. He is watching me eat.
He isn't looking at me with the cold, analytical stare he usually uses. His gaze is focused on my mouth, tracking the movement of my jaw, then dropping to the oversized collar of his hoodie slipping off my shoulder.
The air in the kitchen suddenly feels incredibly thick.
The fear is still there, humming in the background, but it is abruptly overshadowed by a sharp, electric pull of awareness. We are entirely alone in this house. The silence, which felt oppressive ten minutes ago, now feels heavy with something else. Something dangerous.
I swallow the bite of pizza, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that I am not wearing a bra under the thin t-shirt beneath his hoodie.
"Do you want a piece?" I ask, my voice coming out slightly raspy. I clear my throat, gesturing to the baking sheet. "It’s terrible. Truly awful. But it’s food."
Callum’s eyes snap back up to my face. The brief moment of vulnerability vanishes, replaced instantly by the professional mask.
"No," he says, picking up the loaded Glock and sliding it into the holster at his waist. "Eat quickly. You need to get back downstairs."
I take another bite, the sudden shift in his demeanor stinging more than it should. He is pushing me away. He realized the line was blurring, and he is violently re-establishing the boundary.
"Right," I say, my tone cooling. "Back to the dungeon. God forbid the asset spends more than fifteen minutes in the presence of the warden."
"Gemma—"
"It’s fine, Callum," I interrupt, grabbing a second slice of pizza. I don't look at him. I focus entirely on the greasy cardboard crust. "I get it. You don't want to get attached to the girl you might have to use as a human shield later. It’s bad for business."
"I do not use human shields," he says, his voice dropping to a harsh, low register. He takes a step around the island, closing the distance between us.
I freeze, the pizza halfway to my mouth.
He stops less than two feet away. The sheer physical presence of him is overwhelming. I have to tilt my head back just to maintain eye contact.
"I am keeping you downstairs because it is the only room in this house without windows," he says, his dark eyes burning into mine.
"If they breach the perimeter, the first thing they will do is put a sniper round through the glass.
If you are standing in this kitchen, you will die before you even hear the gunshot. Do you understand me?"
My breath catches in my throat. I look at the hard, unyielding line of his mouth, and the absolute certainty in his eyes.
He isn't pushing me away because I’m an asset.
He’s pushing me away because he’s terrified of failing to protect me.
"I understand," I whisper, the anger completely evaporating.
He stares down at me for a second longer, his jaw clenched tight. I can see the pulse beating steadily at the base of his throat. He wants to say something else. I can feel the words hovering in the small space between us, heavy and unspoken.
He raises his hand.
For a wild, irrational moment, I think he is going to touch my face. My skin actually heats up in anticipation.
But his hand stops mid-air.
Before he can move, before either of us can break the tension, a loud, violent clunk echoes through the walls of the house.
The lights above the kitchen island flicker rapidly.
Once. Twice.
And then, the house plunges into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
The hum of the refrigerator dies. The faint whir of the HVAC system cuts out. The silence that follows is absolute and terrifying.
My heart stops.
"Callum?" I whisper into the dark, my voice trembling.
I feel his hand grip my upper arm, his fingers digging into the cashmere of the hoodie, pulling me hard against his chest.
"Don't move," he breathes against my ear, his voice a lethal, quiet promise. "They’re here."