I shift my glare back to Seth.
“And you. You walked out with him and didn’t tell me what it was. You didn’t tell me you were stepping into something dangerous.”
Seth gives an unhelpful half smile.
“I had questions. Then Mercer’s guy hit me in the face and the conversation ended.”
Beau snorts once.
“For the record, I didn’t send you into a trap. I had the situation completely in control.”
I exhale slowly, shoulders finally dropping a fraction.
“Don’t ever leave me sitting here like that again.”
The fear still burns. It still sits under my ribs. The rest of it shifts.
Relief can sit in the corner for now, because I am not finished with this conversation.
I walk over to the couch where Seth sits with the ice pack pressed against his temple.
“I’m not done being mad.”
“That’s good then.” Seth looks up at me. “It means you still love me.”
My jaw clenches. I hold his stare for another beat, then let out a tight breath.
“I’m going to shower. I’ve been sweating my ass off, having panic attacks, thanks to you two geniuses.”
Seth’s mouth curls into a crooked smirk. He shifts on the couch and tries to lean in for a kiss, the ice pack sliding away from his temple. I turn my head just enough that he catches my cheek instead of my mouth.
“Nice try,” I say, standing up.
I head for the stairs before either of them can respond. Krueger follows me a few steps, then stops and pads back to Seth like he can't decide who needs supervision more.
My legs feel heavy as I climb, every muscle aware of how long I have been pacing and waiting and imagining worst case scenarios. The second floor hallway feels too quiet.
Two years ago, I was a regular college student. I worried about finals, rent, and whether I could keep pretending I was fine after my parents died. My biggest fear was wasting my life, not losing it in a shootout or bleeding out on some concrete floor with my name on a warrant.
Now I am a wanted woman. The police have my face on every screen. A psycho murder cult wants me alive long enough to torture me. Every safe house feels temporary. Every quiet moment feels like a countdown to impending doom.
Dr. Feldman would have a field day with this. She would probably write a paper about me if she could. Layers of unresolved grief, chronic trauma, attachment issues, moral injury, all wrapped in felony charges and a body count that keeps growing.
I’m going to need therapy until I die. And that is only if I actually live long enough to sit on some couch again and talk about how fucked up I am.
The water hits my shoulders hard and hot, loud enough to drown out everything else for a minute.
I stand there, letting it run down my spine, over my abdomen, between my thighs, trying to wash the adrenaline out of my skin. My palms press flat against the tile. My forehead rests against the wall. Steam fills the small space until my reflection blurs in the glass.
My chest still feels tight. My thoughts still run in circles. Every worst case scenario replays on a loop behind my closed eyes. Seth on concrete. Seth bleeding. Seth not coming back.
I drag the conditioner through my hair with shaking fingers and rinse it out too fast. I scrub at my body like friction can erase what today has done to my nervous system. My skin is already sensitive from stress and pacing and too much cortisol, but I keep going anyway.
I want peace. But I don't think peace is coming.
This is the life I signed up for. I chose Seth knowing exactly what he is capable of, knowing what follows him, knowing that loving him means living inside danger. I accept all of it. I accept him with blood on his hands and ghosts in his head.
I guess being on the run comes with him.
