Page 30 of Trust

The repetition has a soothing effect on both of us. It’s mechanical. Her eyes never meet mine.

Everything—her care, her comfort, her survival—rests in my hands, and every bite she takes is because I allow it. The realization hits, stirring a new kind of sensation in me, a power I’m not sure I should be exerting. It’s pure control. She gives it up so completely now, without complaint, without question. This is intimate, almost peaceful. I’m not far from enjoying her unspoken surrender, the reluctant admission that she needs me more than she wants to. If this is what it takes to bring her to heel, I’m in, already looking forward to her next meal.

After she finishes, I wipe my hands and set hers free. She gathers her arms in, holding herself as I make my way out.

Her hoodie is hanging over the privacy screen, likely filling the place with that stench. It reeks of damp and bears dark stains. I step over and seize it. She explodes into motion, blindsiding me.

“NO!” The scream rips out of her, and she lunges forward, closing the distance in an instant, hands clawing for the hoodie. “YOU CAN’T TAKE IT! PLEASE!”

I try to pull back, but her fingers are locked around it. Then—rip. It’s only a seam. Only the sleeve comes off. But it’s enough. She stops like she’s been shot. The piece of fabric falls from her hand. Her knees buckle and she sinks to the ground. At first, a gasp. Then the wreckage. Full-body sobs that shake the floorboards. She folds in on herself, hands over her face, shoulders shaking nearly as much as they did after I pulled her out of the lake.

Standing there frozen with the torn pieces of her hoodie in my hand, my brain doesn’t compute what the hell just happened. After everything she’s been through, the arrest, the abduction, her family's betrayal, the escape, the injuries, this goddamn shed, it’s a stupid hoodie breaking her. She’s falling apart like it was the last anchor she had left. I don’t get it, and that’s what makes me uneasy. I don’t know what to say or do. So I turn, without offering any comfort, and leave her be.

BLANK

Sara

GHOST PROTOCOL

Chris

I’ve seen people shut down before, be it soldiers, prisoners, and sometimes civilians after a blast or raid, but this is not the same. Now I’m responsible. I did this, and for no good reason at all.

Mendoza’s a corrupt politician. There would’ve been a dozen ways to repay the favor. Why it had to be his campaign partner’s daughter, along with a ton of money, is still a mystery. I never cared about the payout. I wanted my debt gone.

When I saw her ditching school, breaking rules, and defying every authority figure in her life, some part of me thought the job could be fun, like taming a wild animal. Turns out it’s the opposite. As a bonus, my conscience decides to show up. Didn’t even know I still had one.

She doesn’t fight, doesn’t talk, doesn’t so much as stir when the lamp flares on. Curled up on the bed, she looks like she’s hoping to vanish into the mattress.

I don’t check her legs or feet again. After I cleaned every scrape, every raw patch of skin, and dressed them in sterile gauze, the tape held. That’s all that matters. So I leave her alone. I’ve got nothing else in my arsenal.

Sometimes she sleeps. Sometimes she stares at the wall, eyelids drifting slowly, as if that’s already too much effort. She’s been like this for several days now. I never knew silence could press on a room like this.

I honor my word and keep her alive, providing water, protein bars, and vitamins. It’s the bare minimum, but it’s enough. When she’s asleep or pretending to be, I catch myself maneuvering around the shed like it’s hostile ground, planning every single step before I take it. I’ve stopped trying to get a reaction. It doesn’t matter if I clatter the sink or drag my boots across the floor. She doesn’t move. At this point I’m not even sure she registers that I’ve been in and out.

This isn’t what I signed up for. I was told to keep her off the radar, to keep her safe and offline. Not turn her into a ghost, although I doubt her father would care either way.

Cash came by yesterday. The second he saw my face when I left the shed, his mouth curved. He knew this was coming.

“You’re out of your depth, man.”

“No shit,” I muttered.

He raised a brow, amused by my outburst. I don’t use that kind of language. Ever. Had enough of it all through my childhood. Even Cash tries to regulate his mouth around me. With more or less success.

With his elbows braced and fingers laced loosely, he leaned against the porch rail. “Need help?”

I scoffed. “What the hell do you know about teenage girls?” I threw up both hands, palms out like a referee calling for a timeout. “Wait. Don’t tell me. Forget I asked.”

He smirked. Cash likes this too much, me fumbling with problems I can’t solve with a threat or firepower.

Standing next to him, I checked the feed to see whether she’d gotten up or drunk the orange juice I left her. She hadn’t. “So, you actually wanna fix this mess for me?” Hard to believe, but I asked anyway.

His expression shifted, less joking, more thoughtful. “Not for you,” he said. “For her.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“I like her.” He said it plainly. Shrugged. “You don’t meet girls like her often. Fire in her gut. She doesn’t deserve this.” Cash didn’t laugh this time. “She’s not an enemy or a soldier. She’s someone who’s been pushed around too much already.”