Page 45 of The Cost of Silence

Fuck.

Dangerous. This is dangerous.

“You sleep at all?” I ask.

“A little.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Did you?”

Not enough. Not well. Not without replaying the image of her sitting on that bed with her shoulders curled in and fear she couldn’t hide.

“Enough,” I lie.

Her lips press together. She doesn’t call me on it, but she sees more than I want her to. She makes me feel exposed. This woman is supposed to be my enemy, and yet, I can’t find my earlier anger at her. Without her article, I wouldn’t have been aware of my uncle’s betrayal. At least not in time.

She drifts into the kitchen, her movements slower than usual, careful. I follow without meaning to, like gravity.

“Coffee?” she asks, reaching for the mugs.

I should tell her no. I should tell her to sit, rest her ribs, let me handle it.

But something about the way she moves through my kitchen, my territory, as if she belongs here, makes the words die in my throat. “Yeah,” I say, watching her far too closely. “Coffee would be good.”

She measures grounds, pours water, starts the machine. I watch her do it: the small frown of concentration, the way she tries not to favor her right side, the soft hitch of breath when she stretches too far.

Domestic. Gentle. Intimate in a way that makes my pulse go off rhythm.

She slides a mug toward me. “Here.”

“Thank you.” My voice is rougher than the coffee.

She sips hers, leaning against the counter. “So… I guess we should talk about this research plan. If I’m going to help, I need access to…”

“No.” Too sharp. I force myself to soften it. “No raw files. No direct names. I’ll filter what you get.”

Her eyes narrow. “Nico—”

“You’re not arguing.” I step closer without thinking. “I’m serious, Belle. You get the wrong piece of information at the wrong time, and you’re not just endangered, you’re leverage.”

She swallows, but she doesn’t look away. “Information is my job.”

“Keeping you breathing is mine.”

Her breath stutters.

I don’t move.

She doesn’t either.

A tension pulls tight between us, humming, crackling, and just when I think one of us might actually step into it, her phone buzzes in her pocket.

She startles, pulling it out before looking down at the screen.

The name on her screen, Jamie, flashes.

A coworker. I know because I had Rossi send me a list of her office staff.

Still, something hot and sharp flares in my chest before I can smother it.

She hesitates before answering, glancing at me as if she’s trying to read my reaction. Good luck. I barely understand it myself.