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“Ahh, okay. Well,” he began, his deep voice continuing to reassure me, “you’ll be even safer on the other side of me, and then maybe you’ll release a lot more of that oxytocin.”
“Okay.” Yet, I didn’t budge.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he added, sensing my hesitancy about moving again. “What else releases oxytocin? Talk to me while you move.”
Jeez, he was good at distracting me. “Aside from physical touch, like hugging, labor can trigger its release. Breastfeeding.” I set my hand to the ground on the other side of him, beginning to slide over. “An erection, sex, masturba—” I cut myself off a little too late.
He cleared his throat, doubtfully from the smoke that time. “Lie next to me,” he said casually, acting as though he hadn’t heard me, and we weren’t on the verge of joining the fourth floor.
I carefully finished following orders and shifted to my right side, bending my elbows and forcing my hands to fit between us.
After a few more bouts of coughing racked through both of us—hopefully just enough to joggle his brain and clear away the memory of my rambling—he started talking, but based on what he was saying, he wasn’t speaking to me. The only clear word I overheard was, “Break.”
“Break,” I echoed, not actually expecting him to explain what that meant.
He kept his head tipped back, eyes on the ceiling. No movement aside from his finger resting on something near his throat. It had to be his communication device to his team.
“I have the package. We need immediate exfil.” He gave off specific information about our location, but how would anyone get to us? Cut a new hole but through the roof and drop a rope down?
At the visible rise and fall of his chest, I asked, “Everything okay?”
“My teammates are good. And your mom is safe,” he shared. “We were the only ones on the fifth floor aside from the bad guys. And the fourth level had already been cleared out.”
In the chaos of it all, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t asked about my mom. “What about the others? There was so much gunfire before you arrived. Is the staff okay?” Thankfully, with Thanksgiving around the corner, there’d only been a handful of people there.
“I’m not sure on other casualties, ma’am.”
“Ma’am is my mom. Not that it matters what you call me, I suppose.”
“Sorry.” He slowly faced me. “Diana.”
He gestured for me to lift my sweater up and over my mouth. Not easy to do in the cramped space, but I managed to get my hands to the neckline and cover my lips and nose. Now it was just eyes on eyes.
“Who are you? I overheard Mom on the phone with the Secretary of State this morning. Something about diplomacy didn’t work. So, a team of Delta operators were brought in last week for a quick assist even though they were due home already, and now you’re here, so?—”
“Your mom needs to do a better job at not talking where someone can eavesdrop. Not even for her daughter to hear.” Despite the shit lighting, I could make out the visible snap of his brows drawing together. “Especially not near her daughter. Knowing things can be dangerous.”
“Can’t be more dangerous than being taken hostage and having a bomb nearly kill me,” I blurted. “Technically, given the floor might disappear beneath us any moment, we can still die.” My arms began cramping from being trapped between my body and his. “So, you’re Delta, right? Although you all have a few names. CAG. The Unit. Not that you can officially speak on any, right? But at least your people aren’t in the media’s spotlight, unlike the SEALs who took out Bin Laden earlier this year and are now under a microscope.” I needed to stop rambling stat. “Can you give me your name, at least?”
He was quiet for a moment, but then he asked, “Do you need a name?” There was a smooth edge to his tone instead of the typical roughness I would expect from a Delta operator.
“I’d like one, but I’d like a lot of things right now. Doubt I’ll get any of them.”
“Like what?” Ah, he was trying to distract me again.
“Mmm. Room to breathe, for one. Clean air would be nice, too.”
“At least we’re not on fire,” he said, a touch of humor to his voice.
“Well, now that you mention it . . .” I went through a few chemistry notes in my head, trying to determine why the room wasn’t a post-bomb inferno.
“You can call me Dom,” he said, his words snapping through the chemical equations flying through my mind.
“Like Dom as in dominant, or Dom as in Dominic Toretto from Fast and Furious?” Did I really just ask that?
“I’d like to laugh right now, but I’m worried the floor can’t handle it.” He reached for his mask and lowered it to reveal his face, clearly wanting me to see his smile, as if seeing it would somehow help ease my nerves. Because if he was smiling, he couldn’t be too worried we’d plummet to our deaths, right?
But also—wow, what a nice face. I bet even better in the light.
