Page 168 of Chameleon Killer

Not regular Flint irritated. Not the dry, long-suffering exasperation I’d grown accustomed to—and so often enjoyed—provoking. This was something raw and so intense, I almost didn’t recognize him.

Then he grabbed me.

There was no graceful way to describe it. One second I was standing against the wall, staring up at him, and the next his arms locked around me like a cage. He squeezed me so tight, I couldn’t even draw in a breath though his scent tickled my nose.

We both froze, and while he loosened his grip enough to let me inhale, he didn’t let me go.

“I’m okay.” The words fell from my lips, but he merely shifted a hand up to thread through my hair before he cupped the back of my skull.

Apparently he needed independent verification.

“Flint.”

“I heard you.” The words vibrated with a wild kind of ferocity.

“I’m okay.” I fisted his jacket, the hammer of his heart beating out a staccato rhythm against my chest.

“I heard that too.” There was something wrong with his voice. It wasn’t just the growl, or the anger.

Before I could ask, another figure appeared behind him.

Brewster.

If Flint looked furious, Elliot looked—I couldn’t classify it. That bothered me.

He climbed the final steps slowly. His attention moved over me once, clinically enough that I recognized the assessment. No blood. No visible injuries. No restraints. No obvious distress.

For the first time since Flint grabbed me, I tightened my own hold on him. Something in Elliot’s eyes had shifted and they were far from friendly.

Too far.

Then a polished, professional mask slipped into place. “Where is he?”

No hello. No glad you’re alive. Apparently we'd skipped directly to business.

I eased away from Flint, but he only let one arm drop. The other he kept firmly around me as he turned to face Brewster at my side.

“Who?” Was I asking for trouble? Probably, but I refused to assume anything.

Brewster stared at me.

I was tired enough that I almost smiled. Almost.

“The Auditor.” If Flint’s voice had been fire and fury, Elliot—no, not Elliot, Brewster. Brewster’s voice was all icy disdain.

Simon. The correction happened inside my head before I could prevent it. As interesting as that was, I refused to examine it too closely. Not right now.

“I don’t know.” The simplest answer was often the easiest. And in this case, it was also the truth.

“You don't know where he went?” Brewster studied me through cold eyes.

“I don't know where he was,” I said, amending my statement in order to clarify it.

Brewster's expression tightened. “You were talking to him.”

“Yes.”

“Where?” He snapped out that question like a bullet fired from a gun.