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Instead of confirming my suspicion, Bryce just looks grim. “I don’t work for the Bureau, but they often need me. I called in a favor.”
A deep voice pipes into the Suburban’s Bluetooth speaker. “All clear. We’re covering the periphery of the property. Perp in the basement.”
“No one touches him except me,” Bryce grunts.
“You got it, boss.”
Bryce doesn’t bother answering. Staring past the windshield, his face is the constitution of stone, his body tense and motionless like an immovable boulder.
“Promise me you won’t kill him,” I find myself saying. “He could have easily killed me, and he didn’t.”
“Knowing you were at his mercy is enough reason to end his life,” he exclaims with sullen fury.
“Promise me, Bryce. No more killing for me. That’s not going to solve anything.”
As if exploding out of his seat, Bryce hauls out of the car. He’s glaring at me while I open my passenger door. Before I can step out, his arm reaches around my waist. Stiffly, we walk toward a structure with broken shutters and worn floorboards. Cobwebs dangle over the grimy porch.
When we enter, it’s like a glitch in the space-time continuum. Beyond a dilapidated foyer with faded wallpaper, there is a steel door that requires Bryce’s biometric access.
It opens to a room with minimalist lines of concrete and steel. There are computer monitors along an entire wall, a small kitchen area, and a massive conference table on which agents are unburdening themselves of guns, holsters, and bulletproof vests.
They all look up in anticipation when we enter, as if waiting for Bryce to speak.
“Good job tonight,” he says curtly. Like a coded message has been communicated, the people return to whatever they were doing. There’s chatter and no tension, which is surprising when you consider what we went through. If anything, the group seems weirdly, I don’t know, festive.
I’m so discombobulated by this glimpse of another world, I don’t realize Kina, Louis, and Jake are here until they stand right in front of me.
The men nod, with Jake mumbling an apology past his jaw strap.
“Jake, don’t talk,” I say nervously. “Oh my god, you’re in worse shape than me. I should be the one apologizing!”
Kina shakes her head. “Can’t fucking believe they jumped us, Ana.”
I’m so happy she’s not in a broken state like Jake, I wrap my arms around her and squeeze. She hugs me back and a few pounds worth of stress fall away. Thank god they’re here instead of in the hospital. Or worse. I shudder at the thought of my friends putting their lives on the line for me.
“Let’s go,” Bryce says brusquely, practically elbowing everyone out of the way as he leads me to the stairs. The crowded room hushes respectfully while we walk to the second floor, only resuming their conversations once we’re at the end of the upstairs hallway.
The room we enter is less modernized, drawing instead from the farmhouse setting. The headboard is black iron, the blunt spindles sturdy. There are mismatched side tables and a worn, scuffed desk against a wall. Nothing fancy, but everything is clean.
I’m grateful. For this man, for this refuge, for a chance to exhale. Bryce closes the door and we’re finally alone. But the way he’s acting, I don’t know what to do or say.
There were so many unprecedented and traumatic things that I experienced tonight, but somehow this reception from the man I love—stony distance and unspoken resentment—is the most daunting of all.
“The bathroom’s here, if you need it,” he says through gritted teeth, like he can’t stand that we’re breathing the same air.
I take the hint and lock the door from inside. Washing my face, I realize how gritty and gross my entire body feels. The shower, once I’m under it, does a decent job of rejuvenating my spirits and clearing my head.
I attempt to understand Bryce’s palpable anger. Why hasn’t he kissed me the way I want to kiss him? Hold me the way I want to hold him? Well, how the fuck will I know if I don’t ask. I’m done guessing. I don’t know exactly what to say and do, but we’ll figure things out together.
So, when I wrap a towel around my body and step out of the bathroom, I begin an overdue apology.
“I’m sorry I went to the dock. None of this would have happened if I stuck to protocol.”
He shakes his head, and I can’t read his expression. Disgust? Disappointment? Anger? Deciphering his features carefully, I recognize what he’s trying so hard to conceal with silence.
Hurt.
Bryce, despite being physically unscathed, is lost in the quagmire of deep, all-encompassing pain. There’s no other way to describe how he’s looking at me. Like he has an open wound that everyone is poking because they don’t see it.
