Doesn't look at me.
That keeps landing wrong in some part of my brain I have no use for.
2
Containment
THORNE
The staging areais two hours out—camouflage netting between rock outcroppings, a command tent against a cliff face, three SUVs, and a supply truck tucked into the shadow of the canyon wall.
Ghost directs. The team disperses toward the command tent.
I walk Stratton to the smaller tent at the perimeter. Go in behind her. Let the flap fall.
It's just us now.
Something shifts in her posture. It's barely visible, the adjustment a person makes when the math of a room changes. She stops in the center of the space and waits. Whatever she read in the control room, whatever she read on the helicopter, she's read enough. She knows being alone with me means nothing good for her.
I take my time crossing to her. Want her to feel every step.
My hand closes around her throat.
Not squeezing. Just there.
My thumb settles beneath the hinge of her jaw. My fingers curve along the side of her neck. Her pulse presses steadilyagainst my skin—slow, controlled, nothing like the frantic flutter of someone who understands the danger she's in.
The steadiness is the most infuriating thing about her.
And the eye contact … I feel it everywhere.
A subtle tightening through my shoulders. A low, unwelcome awareness spreads through my body, as if some traitorous part of me decided touching her means something entirely different from what it should. My grip shifts slightly, not to tighten, but because the heat of her skin against my palm registers in a way I don't like. In a way I refuse to examine.
I lean close enough that she can see exactly what I am.
"You're going to give us everything. The patient lists, every system you built, every name you know. Fast. My daughter does not have the luxury of your timeline."
My voice stays level. It's been level since the control room.
"When you've made yourself useful in every way you have left to be useful, then we'll have a different conversation about what happens to you."
I hold there.
Her pulse beats against my fingers—measured, deliberate. It pushes into the center of my palm like a challenge.
"Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
Her eyes stay locked on mine.
That same still accounting.
The pulse under my hand doesn't change.
"Yes." The syllable is a soft, steady breath.
One word. No tremor.
Something in my chest tightens—anger, mostly. It's easier to call it that.
