CHAPTER 8 #2
I walk into the en-suite bathroom. I turn on the faucet, soaking a clean white washcloth in cold water, and wring it out.
When I walk back into the bedroom, she is exactly where I left her, staring blankly at the far wall.
I stop in front of her.
She doesn't look up. She is retreating inward, her mind finally shutting down to protect itself from the trauma.
I crouch down, bringing myself to eye level with her.
"Gemma," I say softly.
She blinks, her eyes slowly focusing on my face. "Yeah."
I reach out with the damp cloth. I don't ask for permission. I simply press the cold fabric against her cheek, gently wiping away the streak of plaster dust.
She flinches slightly at the cold, but she doesn't pull away.
Her eyes track the movement of my hand. The absolute silence of the room settles heavily around us. The only sound is the faint rustle of the wind outside and the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing.
I move the cloth down to her jaw, carefully dabbing at the angry red scrape.
"That hurts," she murmurs, her voice barely a whisper.
"I know," I say, my voice equally quiet. "It’s superficial. It won't scar."
"I wasn't worried about scarring." She looks directly into my eyes. The proximity is dangerous. I am kneeling between her knees, my hand resting against her face. I can feel the warmth of her skin radiating through the damp cloth. "I was worried about the fact that I almost died in a basement."
"You didn't die."
"Because of you."
"Because you fought back," I correct her, lowering the cloth. I don't pull my hand away. My knuckles brush against the soft skin of her neck. "If you hadn't fired that weapon, he would have breached the room before I reached the stairs. You saved your own life, Gemma."
She stares at me, her dark eyes searching mine.
She is looking for the lie. She is looking for the cold, calculating professional who kidnapped her.
But I don't have the energy to wear the mask right now.
I am tired. I am covered in another man’s blood. And the only thing keeping me grounded in this room is the erratic, chaotic pulse beating against my knuckles.
"You killed five men tonight," she says, her voice trembling slightly.
It is a statement of fact. It is the reality of who I am and what I do. I wait for the revulsion. I wait for her to pull away, to realize that the man kneeling in front of her is a monster.
"Yes," I say simply.
She bites her lower lip. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then slowly rises back to my eyes.
"Thank you," she whispers.
The words hit me harder than a physical blow.
She isn't disgusted. She isn't judging me. She is thanking me for the violence.
The tight, painful knot in my chest completely unravels.
I drop the washcloth onto the floor. I slide my hand to the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her dark hair, and I pull her forward.
I don't kiss her.
I press my forehead against hers.
It is a gesture of absolute, terrifying surrender. I close my eyes, letting the physical contact anchor me. Her hands come up, gripping the front of my t-shirt, her small fingers curling into the fabric right over my heart.
We stay like that for a long time. Breathing the same air. Sharing the same dark, quiet space.
"You need to sleep," I finally say, my voice rough, breaking the silence. I don't pull back.
"I can't sleep," she murmurs, her breath ghosting across my lips. "Every time I close my eyes, I see the laser."
"I am right here," I tell her, my thumb stroking the soft skin behind her ear. "I am not leaving this room. Nobody is coming through that door."
She lets out a slow, shaky exhale. Her grip on my shirt loosens slightly.
"Okay," she whispers.
I pull back, the loss of contact leaving a cold ache in my chest. I stand up, taking a deliberate step away from the bed. I need distance. I need the boundary back.
"Lie down," I instruct, pointing to the pillows.
She kicks off her heavy boots, letting them hit the floor, and crawls backward onto the mattress. She doesn't take off the cashmere hoodie. She curls into a tight ball on her side, pulling the heavy duvet over her shoulders.
I walk over to the heavy oak door, lock the deadbolt, and drag a heavy wooden chair under the handle. It won't stop a determined breach, but it will make noise.
I walk back to the center of the room and sit down on the floor, leaning my back against the dark wood dresser. I pull the Glock from my holster, resting it on my bent knee.
I look at the bed.
Gemma is watching me from the shadows, her dark eyes reflecting the ambient light of the flashlight.
"Callum?" she asks softly.
"Go to sleep, Gemma."
She doesn't say anything else. She closes her eyes.
I sit in the dark, listening to the rhythm of her breathing as it slowly evens out. I keep my eyes on the locked door, my hand resting on the grip of the gun.
The perimeter is compromised. The syndicate knows where we are. The drive is still encrypted.
But as I sit in the quiet room, guarding the woman sleeping a few feet away from me, I realize that the tactical variables no longer matter.
I am not fighting for a contract anymore.
I am fighting for her.