CHAPTER 13 Maeve
I wake up slowly, my brain swimming up through layers of thick, dreamless sleep.
The first thing I notice is the smell. It isn't the sharp, metallic tang of blood or the suffocating dust of the stairwell. It smells like clean cotton, old carpet, and the faint, lingering scent of cedar.
The second thing I notice is the pain.
It hits me the second I try to swallow. A sharp, burning ache radiates down the sides of my neck, making me wince and cough a dry, pathetic sound into the pillow. My right hand throbs, the knuckles stiff and sore from gripping the glass-breaker.
I open my eyes. The room is completely dark, the heavy blackout curtains blocking any trace of daylight.
I shift under the heavy comforter, my hand reaching out blindly across the mattress. My fingers brush against the cold, empty sheets next to me.
I sit up, the sudden movement sending a rush of dizziness to my head.
"I'm here."
The voice comes from the floor, low and quiet.
I turn my head toward the sound. Declan is sitting on the beige carpet, his back resting against the wall right next to the closed bedroom door. His legs are stretched out in front of him, clad in dark tactical pants. He is wearing the clean black t-shirt I set out for him last night.
He didn't sleep in the bed. He didn't even sit in the chair. He sat on the floor, physically blocking the only exit, for God knows how many hours.
"What time is it?" I ask, my voice sounding like gravel.
"Just past eleven in the morning," he replies. He doesn't look tired. He looks exactly the same as he always does—controlled, alert, and entirely unreadable in the shadows.
"You didn't sleep."
"I don't require eight hours to function."
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, trying to clear the lingering fog of exhaustion. "That isn't a biological fact, Declan. That's just you pretending you aren't human."
He doesn't argue. He stands up, his movements smooth despite the fact that he spent the night sitting on a hard floor. He walks over to the small lamp on the nightstand and switches it on. The warm, yellow light fills the room, banishing the shadows.
I blink against the sudden brightness, pulling the comforter up to my chest.
He looks at me, his dark eyes immediately dropping to my neck. I don't need a mirror to know the bruises look worse today. I can feel the tight, swollen heat of them against my skin.
His jaw tightens, a microscopic flex of muscle, before he forces his gaze back up to my eyes.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
"I don't think I can swallow solid food," I admit, wincing as I try to clear my throat again. "My throat feels like I swallowed a handful of thumbtacks."
"I will make tea. And soup."
He turns and walks out of the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him.
I sit in the bed for a minute, listening to the quiet sounds of him moving around the small kitchen. The clatter of a pot on the stove. The rush of water from the tap. It is such a bizarre, domestic routine to follow the absolute violence of last night.
I throw the covers off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My muscles protest loudly, but I force myself to stand.
I walk into the small, attached bathroom and turn on the light.
I grip the edges of the laminate counter and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
I look like a ghost. My skin is pale, the dark circles under my eyes making them look massive and hollow.
But the worst part is my neck. The bruises are a mottled, angry mix of deep purple, black, and yellow.
They wrap around the front of my throat, the exact shape of a man’s desperate, violent grip.
I reach up, my fingers hovering an inch above the bruised skin.
I killed him.
The thought doesn't send me into a panic attack this time. It just sits there, a cold, heavy fact in the center of my chest. I drove a piece of metal into his neck, and I watched him fall, and I survived.
I turn the faucet on, splashing cold water onto my face until my skin goes numb. I dry off with a scratchy towel and walk out into the hallway.
The smell of chicken broth and peppermint tea fills the small house.
I walk into the kitchen. Declan is standing at the stove, stirring a small pot. He has a secure tablet resting on the counter next to him.
I sit down at the small, wobbly dining table.
"Did Leo call?" I ask, pulling my sleeves down over my hands.
Declan turns off the burner. He pours the tea into a mug and ladles the soup into a bowl, carrying both to the table. He sets them down in front of me before taking the seat opposite mine.
"Leo checked in an hour ago," Declan says, sliding the tablet across the table so I can see the screen. "The wipe was successful. Evans's internal ledger is completely erased. The cartel's money is gone, and there is no digital footprint linking the missing funds to your terminal."
I stare at the screen. The federal warrant is still active, but without the internal routing logs, the case against me is entirely circumstantial.
"What about Richard?" I ask, wrapping my cold hands around the warm mug of tea. "Did they find him?"
"Local police responded to a noise complaint near the logging road early this morning," Declan replies, his tone clinical. "They found the stolen SUV. They found a significant amount of blood in the cargo area and on the ground near the vehicle."
"But they didn't find him."
"No. Which means the cartel found him first." Declan leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Evans is likely being interrogated in a secure location. He will tell them exactly what happened in the server room. He will tell them I am the one who pulled the trigger."
I take a slow, painful sip of the tea. The warm liquid coats my throat, easing the sharp sting slightly.
"So we're back to square one," I say, setting the mug down. "We're hiding."
"We are regrouping," Declan corrects. "The primary Safe House in Colorado is compromised. Evans knew the general location from the initial contract. We cannot return there."
I look around the beige, depressing kitchen. "Are we staying here?"
"No. This location is a temporary transit point. We leave tonight."
"To where?"
"Somewhere the cartel cannot easily deploy assets." He watches me, his dark eyes unreadable. "You need to eat the soup, Maeve. Your body needs the sodium to recover from the adrenaline crash."
I look down at the bowl of chicken soup. It looks like it came from a can. It probably did. I pick up the spoon, my hand trembling slightly, and force myself to take a bite. It tastes like salt and metal, but I swallow it anyway.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. The quiet is heavy, but it isn't the suffocating, terrifying silence of the server room. It’s the exhausted quiet of two people who survived a car crash and are sitting on the side of the road waiting for the tow truck.
"You didn't ask about the kiss," I say suddenly.
The words slip out before my brain can filter them. My spoon clatters against the edge of the bowl.
Declan stops looking at the tablet. He slowly lifts his gaze, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
"What is there to ask?" he says, his voice dropping to a low, quiet rumble.
"I don't know," I mutter, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. I look down at my soup, stirring it aimlessly. "Usually, when two people who are constantly arguing suddenly kiss in a stolen car while a man bleeds out in the trunk, there is a follow-up conversation. Or at least an awkward silence."
"I am not interested in awkward silence, Maeve."
I look up. He hasn't moved, but the intensity in his eyes makes the small kitchen feel microscopic.
"Then what are you interested in?" I challenge, my defensive instincts flaring up. "Because right now, you're looking at me like I'm a tactical problem you haven't figured out how to solve yet."
"You are not a tactical problem," Declan says softly. He rests his forearms on the table, leaning forward slightly. "You are the only variable in my life that I cannot control. And I am entirely aware of that fact."
"You control everything," I argue, gesturing to the house, the clothes I’m wearing, the soup. "You lock doors. You dictate where we go. You literally bought my toothpaste before I even knew you existed."
"I control the environment," he corrects, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second.
"I do not control you. If I controlled you, you would have stayed in the server room last night instead of running down the stairs.
If I controlled you, you wouldn't have made that terrible coffee to spite me. "
He reaches across the table. He doesn't grab my wrist this time. He just rests his hand flat on the laminate surface, inches away from my own.
"The kiss in the car was not a mistake," Declan says, his voice rough with absolute certainty. "It was not a trauma response. It was exactly what I have wanted to do since the first time I watched you on a screen."
My breath catches painfully in my bruised throat.
The honesty is brutal. It strips away any illusion that we are just two people thrown together by circumstance. He planned this. He wanted this.
"You're crazy," I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Probably," he agrees without hesitation.
I look at his hand resting on the table. The knuckles are bruised, the skin rough. I think about the way he held my face in the stairwell. I think about the way he sat on the floor all night just to make sure no one came through the door.
I am a rational person. I am an auditor. I look at facts.
The fact is, Declan Vance is a dangerous, obsessive, morally bankrupt man who kills people for a living.
The other fact is, he is the only person in my entire life who has ever made me feel completely, undeniably safe.
I reach out, my fingers tentatively brushing against the back of his hand.
Declan goes completely still.
"If we're going to do this," I say, my voice trembling slightly. "If I'm going to let you... keep me."
His eyes darken instantly. The pitch-black obsidian swallowing the light.
"You have to stop treating me like glass," I finish, my fingers curling around the edge of his hand. "I killed a man last night, Declan. I'm not the innocent accountant you watched on a camera anymore. I'm part of this now. If we're at war, I want to know the plan."
Declan stares at me. The muscle in his jaw flexes violently.
He turns his hand over, his fingers wrapping around mine with a possessive, crushing grip that makes my pulse spike.
"You want the plan," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the back of my hand.
"Yes."
He holds my gaze for a long, heavy moment. The tension in the kitchen is no longer about survival. It is entirely about the dangerous, shifting dynamic between us.
"Leo is securing a location in Miami," Declan says, his voice a low rasp. "The cartel's primary financial hub for the Midwest operates out of a shell corporation there. Evans was just a feeder. We are going to cut the head off the snake."
"We're going to rob them," I realize, the audacity of the plan hitting me.
"We are going to dismantle their infrastructure," he corrects. "And when they are bleeding out financially, I am going to find the man who put the bounty on your head, and I am going to end him."
He releases my hand, the sudden loss of contact leaving me breathless.
"Finish your soup, Maeve," Declan says, standing up from the table. "We have a lot of work to do."
I watch him walk out of the kitchen, the dark, lethal energy rolling off him in waves.
I look down at my trembling hands. I am terrified. I am exhausted.
But as I pick up my spoon, a small, chaotic smile touches my lips.
We are going to Miami. And we are going to burn them all to the ground.