Chapter 2 #2
My clothes are unwearable. I find a drawer with men's undershirts and pull one on—it falls to mid-thigh, basically a dress on my frame. Better than the towel.
Remy is off the phone when I emerge, standing by the window with his back to me. The tactical vest is gone. Just dark jeans, scuffed cowboy boots and a once expensive sweater that's seen better days.
"Your contact?" I ask.
"Robert Fitzwallace. He owns Cerberus." He doesn't turn around. "He confirmed Lazarev is off grid."
"Who is this Lazarev and why is he after me?"
"He isn't after you. He's after me, and it's personal. There haven't been any official sightings of him for months, but the explosive I didn't trigger tonight matches his signature. Fitz is running an analysis of the people you worked for—"
"It was my mentor Emil—"
"Yeah we know about Emil, but we want to know who he's working for and how they found you—although using your real name in the new job wasn't your smartest move."
"I was careful." The defensiveness in my voice surprises me. "I used my real credentials because false documents draw more scrutiny in academic settings, but I didn't leave a trail. I didn't contact anyone from my old life. I—"
"Someone knew and they didn't keep their mouth shut.
" He turns to face me, and his eyes drop to my bare legs for just a second before returning to my face.
His expression is controlled. "Or they got lucky.
Doesn't matter now. What matters is staying ahead of them until we can get you somewhere more secure. "
"Where would that be?"
"Working on it."
I move closer, clutching the first aid kit I retrieved from the bathroom. "You need medical attention."
"It can wait."
"No, it really can't." I set the kit on the table. "Sit."
He doesn't move. "I'm fine."
"You jumped through a window and got caught in a building collapse.
You're bleeding, you're burned, and you're protecting your ribs like they're cracked.
Infection in burns can kill you, and if those ribs are broken instead of just bruised, you could puncture a lung.
" I cross my arms. "So sit down and let me assess the damage, or I'll make the assessment while you're unconscious from blood loss or septic shock. "
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Stubborn."
"Practical." I pull out a chair. "Please."
He studies me for a moment, then complies. The chair creaks under his weight as he sits, angling to give me access to his injuries.
"Shirt off," I say.
Remy pulls the shirt over his head in one smooth motion... and I forget how to breathe.
Scars. Everywhere. Old ones, puckered and white against tanned skin. Newer ones, still pink. A roadmap of violence written across muscle and flesh. Ink too—tattoos that wind around his ribs, across his shoulders. Some religious imagery I recognize, some symbols I don't.
A body that's been to war and came back changed.
The burns are on his shoulder and neck, angry red patches where heat and debris made contact. Blistered in places. Not severe enough for hospital treatment, but they'll hurt. His ribs show swelling and redness on the left side where the impact hit.
Professional. I need to be professional.
I retrieve supplies from the kit. Antiseptic. Burn cream. Bandages. My hands are steady as I clean the wounds, even though proximity to all that scarred skin makes my pulse spike.
"This will sting," I warn before applying the antiseptic.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't make a sound. Just sits there like a statue while I work.
The burns could be worse. I apply burn cream with careful fingers, hyperaware of everywhere skin touches skin. His shoulder is solid muscle under my hands. Warm despite the burns.
Focus.
"The ribs?" I ask.
"Bruised. Maybe cracked. Not broken."
"You can't know that without imaging."
"I've had broken ribs before. This isn't it." He says it matter-of-factly, like breaking bones is routine.
Maybe for him, it is.
I press gently against his side, feeling for abnormalities. He tenses but doesn't pull away.
"Hurts?" I ask.
"Everything hurts." His voice is dry. "Comes with the job."
"Your job seems terrible."
"It has its moments."
I finish bandaging the burns and step back, putting professional distance between us. "You should rest. Your body needs time to heal."
"Rest later. Right now we need to—"
An explosion cuts him off.
Not close. Street level, maybe. But loud enough to rattle the windows and send my heart rate into overdrive.
Remy is on his feet instantly, weapon drawn, moving to the window with controlled speed that makes violence look like choreography. He peers through a gap in the curtains, face hard.
"Merde," he mutters. Then, louder: "Get dressed. We're moving."
"What happened?"
"Safe house is compromised." He's already grabbing gear, shoving weapons into a bag with ruthless efficiency. "They tracked us here."
"Tracked us?" I'm moving too, heading for the bedroom to find something wearable. "How?"
"Don't know yet. Could be the truck, could be something else." He's pulling items from drawers, checking the room with sharp efficiency. "Doesn't matter right now. We need to move."
I find leggings and a sweater two sizes too large in the bedroom closet, socks, and a pair of slip-on sneakers. I'm yanking on the leggings when Remy appears in the doorway.
"Half a minute," he says. "Front entrance is blocked. We're going out the fire escape."
My stomach drops. "The fire escape?"
"You wanted exits. Now we use them."
I pull the sweater over my head and shove my feet into the sneakers, grab my messenger bag. "Ready."
Remy is at the bedroom window, forcing it open, cold air rushing in.
Outside, stories up, a metal ladder descends into darkness.
"After you," he says.
I look at the drop, at the flimsy metal platform, at the street below where figures are moving in the shadows.
Then I look at Remy, at the calm certainty in his face that says he's done this a hundred times before and will do it a hundred times again.
"This is insane," I say.
"Probably." He gestures to the window. "But it's better than the alternative."
I take a breath, grip my bag tight, and climb out into the night.