Page 96 of Shadow

And angry.

And worried.

And…stupid. Oh, so stupid.

What had happened to her professional distance? Her ability to compartmentalize?

Job in one box. Life in another. Fear locked away where it couldn’t touch her. Professional competence in the front where everyone could see it.

Somehow, over the past three weeks, the lines had blurred. The walls had crumbled. The compartments had merged into one messy, dangerous, complicated thing.

And suddenly, she was standing in the middle of a road, her heart on the outside of her body…

And now, sitting in a motel room, threading a needle through Asher Morrison’s skin while he barely flinched and Roger paced and Destiny trembled, Daphne realized her compartments had been bleeding into each other.

Professional and personal. Partner and something more. Operation and real life.

Stop playing house.

She turned back to Asher. Taped gauze over the stitches on his ribs.

“Left arm,” she said.

He extended his arm. The cut ran from elbow to wrist on the inside of his forearm. Deeper than the one on his ribs. It would take more stitches. Would hurt more.

She cleaned it with antiseptic. Asher hissed through his teeth. His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white.

“You want something for the pain?” Daphne asked. They’d bought ibuprofen at the drugstore. Not much, but better than nothing.

“No. Just…run a line of superglue. It’ll be fine.”

“You could get an infection.”

He shook his head. “Just glue it.”

It still hurt him—she saw it on his face as she worked the wound closed, gluing it down the seam.

He blew out a few breaths, closed one eye.

She finally finished and covered this, too, with a gauze bandage.

“You’re mad at me,” he said finally. Voice quiet. Statement, not a question.

She frowned, stood up, pulling off her gloves. “I’m not mad.”

“You haven’t looked at me once since we got here.”

“I’m trying to sew you—or glue you—back together.”

“Daphne—”

She threw the wrappers into the garbage, along with bloody gauze. “Okay, fine. How did they find us, Asher?” She glanced at the closed door, back at him. “The guy knew you. Or it looked like he did⁠—”

“He does. His name is Dmitri.”

She blinked at him.

“He’s my…he’s my informant.”