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Should I try firing Ash? They will probably set someone else up in his place. He knows I'm supposed to finish the mission. Or he may know nothing and just be acting on a noble belief that a mission should never be left unfinished.

We're walking down a cement hall on our way to the classroom where we'll meet with the kids before they start their dress rehearsal. My heels echo; Ash and Alesana flank me as we follow the director.

A crash followed by shouts comes from somewhere close. Alesana is suddenly in front of me, Ash behind. His hand grips my hip and he's pushing. I follow the pressure as he swings open a door and herds me into a tight dark space.

He slams the door shut, blocking out all the light. Cleaning products scent the close space. He pushes me behind him, placing himself at the door.

My heart beats like a trapped hummingbird.

The wire in Ash's ear crackles but I can't understand what the voice is saying.

My eyes begin to adjust. There is light spilling under the door, illuminating the outline of Ash's shoes and the bottom of his pant legs. Soon I can make out shelves and the rest of his looming figure.

"They are doing a security sweep," he says. "Shouldn't be more than a few minutes. They think it was a prop mishap."

I nod even though he can't see me.

"You okay?" he asks.

"No." The honesty shocks us both, I think, because his body goes still and mine gets flaming hot. "I'm not okay, Ash. Are you kidding me?"

He turns fully to me, his broad shoulders a black line in the darkness, his face nothing but shadows. I have an insatiable urge to strike out at him. My hand flies, aiming up at his face. Ash catches my wrist, his finger shackling it.

I strike out with the other hand, just as sloppily. He catches that one too, just as easily.

A sob sticks in my throat. Ash lessens the pressure on my wrists, as if asking if I can be trusted. When I stay still, he releases. My skin feels branded from his.

I swallow the emotion in my throat as I lower my hands. They’re shaking. Anger wells up again, and it's like someone else is in charge of my body when I lunge at him.

Ash captures both wrists again. I struggle, thrashing in his grip. "Stop it," Ash seethes, his hands like manacles. I kick out, hitting him in the shin. He grunts. I kick him again.

Using his hold on my wrists, he pushes me sideways until my back knocks into one of the shelves, then he presses close, not so that he's touching me but so that my kicks don't have any power.

My chest heaves with each breath, my wool sweater brushing the button of his suit jacket.

"If you want to hit me, I'll let you. But realize that if you slap my face right now, I will walk out of this closet with your handprint on me. Is that what you really want?" His voice is so cold it burns.

My breath saws, tears burn. I lean my head back against the shelf, all the fight draining out of me. There are photographers out there.

Fuck.

He releases my wrists and fumbles briefly by the door until an overhead light blares to life. I close my eyes against the glare.

Digging my nails into my palms, I try to use the pain to ground me. It doesn't. I am a tornado of emotion trapped in a body. "Ash." My voice shakes.

He's standing by the door, a few feet away. Breath rougher than normal.

"I don't want to fight you." I swallow. It's so true.

"I don't know why you do."

My eyes fly open. He's half turned toward the door, giving me his profile. "Are you kidding? You seriously don't understand why I want to slap you?"

"My mission is to keep you safe." He doesn't look at me.

"For them!" I scream-whisper, pushing off the shelves behind me and pointing an accusing finger at the closed door, at the world outside this closet, at the forces pulling my marionette strings. The same ones pulling his. "Your mission could change to killing me, Ash." My voice drops to a true whisper.

He turns to me, leans forward, his quiet response loud in the intimate space between us. "I will keep you safe." There is no warmth in his tone, no tenderness in his eyes. But there is grim determination in both.