THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SIX


Morning sunlight filtered into the suite in narrow stripes, casting golden shadows across the floor. I stirred beneath the thick comforter, the silk sheets too soft, too foreign to feel like safety. My body ached from tension rather than sleep, the memory of the gold chain still coiled in my mind like a noose.

I sat up slowly. The bed across the room was empty—the couch, too.

My eyes caught movement at the table near the windows. Wesley sat hunched over his laptop, already dressed in a black button-down and slacks, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in focused silence. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

He didn’t glance up when he said, “Coffee’s hot. Help yourself.”

His voice was even, unreadable, and for some reason, that rattled me more than his fury ever had.

I slid out of bed, bare feet quiet on the floor, and padded over to the silver tray set on the console. Two mugs. One already poured and half-finished. The other—empty, waiting.

I hesitated before pouring, watching the way his fingers flew over the keyboard. There were bruises on his knuckles. A faint shadow under one eye. But it wasn’t the signs of exhaustion that unsettled me—it was how calm he looked. Like the man who’d pulled me from smoke and storm and barked orders with a gun drawn had been a different version of him entirely.

“Thanks,” I murmured, more out of habit than sincerity.

He didn’t respond. Just typed another line. Silence ballooned between us.

I sipped the coffee. Strong, dark. Not sweetened. The bitterness pulled me more fully awake.

“You had a nightmare,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “Last night.”

That made him pause.

Only slightly.

His fingers hovered over the keys, then resumed tapping, slower. “Everyone dreams.”

“That’s not what I said.”

He looked up then. Not at me—through me. His eyes were colder in the daylight. Sharper.

“We don’t all get to wake up from the past,” he said simply.

Something in me tightened at the words. Not because I understood them—but because I understood the way he said them. Detached. Practiced.

“You didn’t scream,” I offered, softer now.

His eyes finally met mine. For a moment, just a flicker, they warmed. He looked almost surprised.

“Practice,” he said.

A short, almost-smile tugged the edge of his mouth. Then vanished.

I sank into the armchair across from him, folding my legs beneath me, the mug heavy in my hands. I could still smell smoke in my hair. Feel the imprint of his hands around my ribs when he carried me out like I weighed nothing.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” I admitted. “This morning.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Where else would I be?”

“You usually disappear after things get...real.”

Another pause. His expression didn’t shift, but the laptop closed with a soft click.

“I stay when it matters.”

That should’ve comforted me. It didn’t. It just made me more aware of how close he was—and how much of him I still didn’t know.

Neither of us said anything for a long time after that. The quiet between us wasn’t peace. But it wasn’t war either.

Just… something in between. Fragile. Unnamed.

A truce, I realized. One I hadn’t agreed to. But wasn’t ready to break.

The suite had a small, tucked-away library nook—floor-to-ceiling shelves, low leather chairs, soft lamplight glowing against the wood-paneled walls. I found it by accident after wandering aimlessly, book in hand, restless despite the stillness that pressed down like fog.

Wesley was already there.

He sat angled near the window, sleeves rolled back again, a disassembled handgun laid out across a velvet cloth. Beside it: manila folders stacked in neat piles, papers fanned with red-ink notes scrawled in his handwriting.

He glanced up as I padded in barefoot, curling the edges of the book I hadn’t really been reading.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice low.

I lifted a shoulder. “You told me not to leave.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Approval? Amusement? I couldn’t tell.

He nodded, returning to the task at hand. His fingers moved with precision—checking a spring, wiping the barrel. I watched him for a beat too long, then sank into the chair across from him, tucking my legs beneath me.

For a while, the only sound was the soft tick of a clock and the muted rustle of paper.

“I never liked silence growing up,” I said finally, my voice nearly swallowed by the room. “It made me think I’d done something wrong.”

Wesley didn’t look up. “And now?”

“Now I think maybe silence was the only honest thing in the house.”

He paused at that. A small movement, his gaze landing on me like it weighed something.

“You said you grew up in D.C.,” he said.

“Mostly.” I tilted my head. “I spent one summer in Barbados, though. Marco said the sand would fix everything.”

A faint snort. “Did it?”

“No. I burned so bad I couldn’t wear anything but silk robes for a week. He said I looked like a lobster and made me walk behind him.”

Wesley’s jaw twitched. Not quite a smile, but something softened in his expression.

“He was always cruel in small ways,” I added, voice quieter now.

Wesley didn’t answer. Just set the cloth aside, folded his hands over his knee.

“You sleep in silk robes now?” he asked after a beat, not teasing—just curious.

I looked at him. “Do you?”

That, oddly, made him laugh—quiet and short.

“No,” he said. “Cotton.”

The air shifted, less tense and more…aware. I leaned forward to set the book on the table.

Something must’ve fallen in my hair—ash or dust from earlier. I felt him move before I saw it.

His hand rose, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing just behind my ear. Not in warning. Not calculated.

Instinct.

He tucked a strand of hair back.

And then—he stilled.

So did I.

The tips of his fingers grazed my cheek. My breath hitched. His eyes were locked on mine, unreadable, his mouth slightly parted like he wasn’t sure what he’d just done.

The heat was sudden. Subtle. But total.

I pulled back first.

Not far—just enough.

He dropped his hand slowly, eyes shuttering. “Sorry,” he said.

But it didn’t sound like he meant it.

“You’re not what I expected,” I murmured, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then nodded. “Neither are you.”

We didn’t move. We didn’t speak.

But something was changing. Something neither of us had the courage—or the recklessness—to name.

Not yet.

Night settled thick against the windows, draping the hallway in a hush that felt too complete. I stepped out of the suite barefoot, drawn by the low sound of voices just beyond the doorway. Wesley was there, speaking in clipped tones to one of his guards. I didn’t catch the words, just the authority in his voice.

I opened my mouth to ask something, maybe about the sensor logs or when I could leave the damn suite, but then I saw it.

A glint.

Right beneath my toes, half-hidden in the grooves of the wooden floor.

I crouched instinctively, fingers reaching. It looked like a pebble at first, something small and smooth that had rolled from someone’s pocket.

Until I touched it.

Cold. Heavy.

I turned it over in my hand and felt my stomach drop.

It was a bullet. Spent. Lodged with faint streaks of polished copper, the tip flattened ever so slightly.

I froze. The hum of conversation stopped behind me.

Then I saw it. The wall just beside the doorframe had a small chip in it. Not obvious unless you were looking. The kind of damage you wouldn’t notice unless you were inches away.

But once you saw it, it was unmistakable. A shot. Clean. Silent. Close.

Wesley’s shadow moved. His body went rigid beside me.

I didn’t look up, just held out the bullet. My palm trembled slightly. “This was in the floor.”

He took it from me, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed mine but offered no comfort. His eyes studied the metal like it was an omen.

“How long has this been here?” I asked, trying to steady my voice.

The guard beside him hesitated. “It wasn’t here this morning.”

I looked at Wesley. His face was unreadable. Still as stone.

“Go back inside,” he said.

“Wesley—” I started, but the tone in his voice silenced me.

“Now.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice. But I obeyed.

I stepped back into the suite without another word and shut the door behind me.

My hand lingered against the wood. Through the faint hum of the hallway, I heard his voice again, low and lethal.

“Sweep every floor. No one sleeps until I know how they got that close.”

I pressed my palm tighter against the frame, heart hammering.

For the last two days, I’d been treating this place like a prison. Complaining about being locked in, watched, followed. I’d thought the suite was a cage.

But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe it was the only thing keeping me alive.