Her fingers go rigid against my shoulders, then they release.
I step back first—unhurried—putting distance between us before she can be the one to create it. Small thing. Insignificant to anyone watching. But control is built from small things, and I don’t surrender inches to anyone. Especially not to her.
She treads water while staring at me, her chest still rising and falling unevenly. That look in her eyes—the one caught between fury and something she doesn’t want to name—makes my cock twitch.
I turn and move toward the pool steps.
“Out,” I order.
I climb out first and reach for the tactical bag I’d hidden at the pool’s edge before any of this started. I pull out a towel and press it to my face—the balaclava is soaked through, cold against my skin—but it stays on.
Behind me, I hear her pull herself up the last step, followed by the soft slap of wet feet against tile. Then everything goes quiet except for the steady sound of water dripping from our bodies onto the concrete floor.
I turn to watch her as she’s standing at the pool’s edge, arms wrapped around herself, and she’s looking at me the way she looked at me in the pool—like the answer to something is buried somewhere behind two inches of exposed eyes and black fabric, and if she just watches long enough, she’ll excavate it.
She won’t.
But I let her try. It costs me nothing, and it keeps her mind occupied with the wrong problem.
“On your knees,” I order again.
She looks up at me from where she’s still standing, water still dripping from her hair onto her skin. Something moves behind her eyes. Calculation? Pride? Fear? Who knows, but she’s working very hard to keep below the surface.
Three seconds pass.
Then she goes down. Slowly, like it’s a choice she’s making rather than a command she’s obeying—and I let her have that fiction because it doesn’t change the outcome.
Her knees meet the cold wet floor, and she settles back, spine straight, eyes still holding mine with that infuriating steadiness that has no business existing in someone in her position.
I don’t move. I stand over her and look down without saying a word, because silence is a weapon most people don’t know how to survive. Most people destroy themselves trying to fill it. She lasts longer than most.
“What do you want from me?” she finally asks.
I crouch down slowly until we’re eye level. The balaclava is still cold against my jaw. Her eyes drag across my face the way they always do—searching, cataloging, trying to reconstruct a full picture from two inches of exposed skin.
“Everything,” I say quietly. “That you and your friend took from us.” The silence that follows is a different kind entirely.
“But right now, I want you to open that pretty mouth and stick your tongue out.”
She obeys instantly, tongue outstretched, eyes fixed on me with that quiet surrender. I step closer, lift the balaclava up over my mouth, and let the spit fall slowly onto her waiting tongue.
“This is what you deserve from me.” She holds it there, eyes still on mine, waiting. “Now swallow.”
She does without hesitation. Her throat moves once, and then she’s still again, kneeling, hands resting on her thighs, waiting like she has all the time in the world.
Such a good little kitten.
I let the silence stretch while my attention drifts across the room to Cain, sprawled where I left him with slow, even breathing. Or at least—that’s what he wants us to think. I know the difference between Cain sleeping and Cain pretending to sleep. I learned that a long time ago.
“I think your buddy’s been out long enough.” I nod toward Cain. “Wake him up.”
She rises from the floor slowly, legs not quite steady beneath her. Each step toward him is careful, hesitant—like the floor might give way. When she finally crouches beside him, her hand trembles slightly as she reaches out toward his shoulder, and I click my tongue.
“Ntz. Ntz.”
I raise the gun slowly, letting it drift into the edge of her vision. A reminder, in case she forgot.
“With your mouth, kitten. Not your hands.”
