Chapter 24
Chapter
Twenty-Four
MALLORY
Iwoke up sore.
A deeper ache that settled into muscle and bone and seemed to leave a dull echo behind. It was a reminder that my body still had to pay the check my bad decisions had written the night before. The hot moments spent on the counter had left bruises and wet heat between my thighs.
We’d leaned into each other, Brewster’s harsh exhales feathered against my shoulder while he dug his fingers into my hips.
The race of his heart and speed of his panting confirmed he’d been every bit as swept away as I had.
Then without a word, he’d pulled out and back.
A moment later, he dragged his pants up before saying, “Shift change is coming.”
That was his only warning before he left the kitchen.
The man hadn’t even lost his shirt, just yanked open his pants to get his cock out and slam it into me.
My clothes—however—were a wreck. His words still ringing in my head, I shoved off the counter and gathered up my discarded clothing. Well, as much of it as I could find.
The shirt was a loss with every single button gone.
At least the pants were intact, as were my panties.
However, they were a tangle together, so I just gathered it all up and strode through the safe house to my room.
I made it just in time to privacy just as the front door opened and new agent voices filtered down the hall.
With a grunt, I leaned against the door for a moment, then dumped my damaged clothes into the can before slipping in to shower away the evidence. We hadn’t used a condom.
Sinking dread gave way.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, I was hardly a horny teenager. With a shake of my head, I made a mental note to verify his health status and make an appointment with my own doctor—just in case. Fortunately, shots to keep my cycle in check protected me from pregnancy.
So, yay me.
All of those thoughts rolled through my head as I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
Then I began cataloging the sensation with the same detachment I used when assessing damage after a long assignment.
Hips. Lower back. Thighs. A faint protest when I shifted my weight, like my body was filing a formal complaint.
I acknowledged it. Then I buried it.
The bed was empty. Cold on the other side.
That part didn’t surprise me. Brewster hadn’t followed me into my room and he’d definitely not slept in my bed.
The agent proved time and again he didn’t linger or explain.
If anything, we’d gotten it out of our system and he’d gone back to work.
Probably labeled what happened between us as an operational hazard and filed it away.
Done.
Over.
In all honesty, that was probably the better decision.
Desire brought on by forced proximity was definitely hot and the sex—well, that had been good.
It might have been fast, but he got me off before he blew his load.
There was that. Returning to status quo like it hadn’t happened was probably not a bad idea.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood carefully, testing balance, ignoring the way my knees protested just enough to be annoying. The room was quiet in that particular safe house way—controlled, artificial, the hum of systems doing their jobs without comment.
The shower the night before meant I only had to splash water on my face, dress, and apply the lightest of cosmetics. I needed to be well-armed today.
Ten minutes later, I left the bedroom and headed to the kitchen following the scent of coffee. The closer I got, the more my nose itched. It was the wrong coffee.
Too weak. Too acidic. Brewster knew how I took it. Which meant he hadn’t made it, or he had and chose not to remember. Either way, message received.
I stopped short of the counter.
Not consciously at first. My feet simply… didn’t go there.
That stretch of granite—cool, unremarkable—might as well have been electrified. I rerouted myself without comment, opening cabinets I didn’t need to open, busying my hands while my body made decisions my mouth refused to acknowledge.
That was when I saw it.
A button.
Small. White. Familiar.
It sat near the edge of the counter, absurdly mundane, like it had always belonged there. I recognized it immediately—not because it was special, but because it was not. Third button down. Cheap stitching. A shirt I’d owned for years and thought nothing of until it hadn’t survived the night intact.
I stared at it longer than necessary.
Then I picked it up, rolled it between my fingers once, and dropped it into the trash.
I didn’t miss.
Agents moved through the house like ghosts. Efficient. Quiet. A different team than yesterday. More senior. Less curious. Someone had adjusted the perimeter overnight, and it showed.
Brewster was not among them.
I poured the coffee anyway and drank it standing up, leaning against the far counter—the safe counter—because sitting felt like I was surrendering something. My body complained again when I shifted my weight.
Good.
Let it.
Pain was honest. It didn’t lie the way people did.
My phone buzzed.
Celia first.
Then the network.
Then Flint.
I ignored all three and opened my laptop instead.
Masters’ name was already everywhere—buried in local reporting, wrapped in euphemism and half-truths. “Municipal employee.” “Ongoing investigation.” “No confirmed connection.”
The lie wasn’t that they didn’t know. The lie was that they didn’t want us to know they knew.
My inbox pinged again—this time internal. Archive access logs. A minor permissions flag. Someone had touched a file they weren’t supposed to touch and thought no one would notice.
Someone always thought that.
I flagged it and sent it on without comment.
Professional. Clean. Controlled.
My body still ached. The kitchen counter still existed. Brewster still hadn’t appeared.
I told myself the order didn’t matter.
When my phone buzzed again, I didn’t look at the name before answering.
“Where are you?” Flint demanded, skipping pleasantries like always.
“Working.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Aren’t you grumpy,” I responded. “Where the hell do you think I am?” I was still stuck in the safe house. Something Flint should know.
A pause. Calculating. He was good at that too.
“What’s wrong?,” he said finally.
“What is always wrong.” Never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to. He was well aware of my answer.
“Don’t do this without me.”
I almost laughed. “I already am.”
He swore under his breath. “Mallory...”
“Flint,” I responded to his frustrated tone with the same patience I used to coax a source.
“We can sit here and have you yell at me and tell me to stop. You can threaten my job, try to use emotional blackmail, and ultimately keep beating your head against the wall and then I’ll do what I do regardless. ”
That was definitely one option.
“Or?” His testy response did make me smile.
“You can help me get this done. It’s a damn good story, we’ve got the inside track, and the access. Help me take advantage of this so I can get back to my life and you can stop freaking out over every breaking news item.”
He snorted.
I glanced at the trash can. At the empty counter. At the reflection of myself in the dark screen of my laptop—steady, composed, not a woman who’d let something dangerous happen and then refused to name it.
“You’re not going to stop.” It wasn’t a question and since I’d already made my point, he just sighed. “Fine, I’ll pull the dailies and get them over to you. Write up a piece. We’ll look at breaking in later or doing an on the scene clip. I’ll get an escort and handle the camera.”
That had my eyebrows raising. “That’s Rudy’s job.”
“Not today,” Flint retorted. “Take it or leave it, that’s the only way I let you back on the air.” He ended the call before I could respond.
One point each, I supposed. With that in mind, I logged into my laptop and got to work on the story. I typed up what I knew, what we suspected, and the angles of the story. I did some research into Masters. I didn’t have access to the logs, but I remembered quite a bit from the scene.
I documented my memories, I might not be able to use them for today’s piece, but they could be useful in the future. It would take time, but I would find the information the Unsub had given to the FBI. For now, all I needed was a single thread to pull.
Later—hours later—I heard footsteps that didn’t belong to an agent. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to.
Brewster stopped behind me. Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to pretend we weren’t aware of each other’s exact positions in the room.
“You should avoid the press today,” he said. From his position, there was no way he couldn’t see what I was working on. As much as I despised anyone reading over my shoulder, I made no attempt to hide it.
“I am the press,” I reminded him without missing a beat.
The brief silence that followed my comment was telling. “The tox report’s moving faster than expected.”
Was that his idea of a peace offering? “Is it?”
“Yes.”
I finally turned.
He looked the same. Controlled. Impeccable. Like nothing had happened. Like everything had.
Our eyes met. Held.
Neither of us mentioned the missing clothes. The ruined shirt. The counter. The fact that standing still hurt.
“I’m going back on air,” I informed him. Informed. Not asking permission.
His jaw tightened—not surprise. Anticipation. “Washington hasn’t cleared it.”
“They will.”
“Flint—”
I raised a hand to cut him off. “Flint knows and is on his way. We’ll be doing a segment on location.” Where that location was TBD for now.
“Mallory—”
“I’m done waiting,” I continued quietly. “So is he.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and deliberate.
Finally, Brewster nodded once. “Then we need to discuss the right angles—and knowing what it costs before we do.”
My body pulsed with a low, familiar ache.