Page 17 of Gunnar

My cheeks warm. “Great,” I say quickly, pushing to my feet. “Love hot water.”

I brush past Gunnar, and a scent wafts from him—spicy, rich, wild.

He doesn’t move.

But his eyes follow me all the way out.

There’s also an oil lamp sitting on a crate in the bathroom. I peel off my cleaning uniform and drop it on the floor. I’ve never been so desperate for a shower in my life. Six hours of non-stop stress sweating.

I’ve never been so scared.

Never had my life flip upside down like this.

I flick the shower on and search in my backpack for my gym towel, hoping it’s clean.

It’s cleaner than the threadbare towel hanging off the door anyway.

I test the water; it’s lukewarm. I step in.

In seconds, it’s hot. I close my eyes and let it run over me, washing away the tang of blood and reek of fear. For a moment, the steady rush of water drowns out everything else.

I try to empty out my mind.

But fragments push their way back in:

The sound that didn’t belong.

The way the kneeling man’s hands trembled.

The second shot.

The way the life spilled out of him.

The Russian’s face turning toward mine.

Recognition.

Ya tebya naydu.

I scrub at my skin, as though the poison is clinging there, instead of behind my eyes. In my heart.

My throat tightens. I press my palm flat against the tile and bow my head, letting the water hide the brief, humiliating sobs that burst out of me.

Then I inhale slowly, count it out, steady myself the way I used to before standing up to present in front of a room full of people.

He could’ve shot me so easily. But he didn’t.

I am still here.

And I’m being guarded by a man who, for no reason I can figure out, is intent on protecting me at all costs.

5

Gunnar

The moment she disappears down the hall, I stride into the kitchen like distance might take the heat out of my chest.

It doesn’t.