Page 39

As the door clicked shut behind them, she let out a slow, careful breath.
Nash leaned in, his voice low enough so only she could hear. "You are," he said, "seriously dangerous."
Grace hunched into her coat as the glass doors sighed shut behind them, the sterile scent of lemon polish and expensive panic left behind in Fenwick’s office. The winter air felt sharper, realer somehow, scraping at her lungs with every breath like it was trying to remind her she was still alive, still moving, still standing after the flashback had only reminded her what was at stake.
Nash walked beside her, silent, steady.
She could feel the heat of him even through the cold. Could smell the sharp tang of blood drying under the faint burn of his leather jacket. They didn’t speak as they crossed the parking lot. Didn’t need to.
The sun was low behind the mountains, staining the horizon a bruised copper, long shadows cutting across the snow-dusted asphalt. Grace tucked her hands deep into her pockets. In the left one, the knife settled against her fingers, and it felt good. She ignored the tremble still hiding in her fingers, furious that she couldn’t will it away.
He bled for her.
The thought came unbidden, sinking deep, coiling tight around her heart.
He had torn through drones, glass, and barriers without hesitation. Shielded her like it was instinct, not a decision, not a tactic, just an inevitable truth written into his bones.
She had frozen. Again.
Locked in the past while the present tried to kill her.
A fresh wave of shame surged up, but she crushed it down ruthlessly. She wasn’t that woman anymore, the one who folded. The one who let the past dictate who she was. She had stood back up. She had fought her way out of the wreckage. Nash… Nash had helped her remember that.
She slid a glance at him as they reached the rental car.
He was moving stiffly now, his left shoulder slightly lower, like the burn across his collarbone was pulling at the muscle. His hands were steady on the keys, but she saw the tightness in his jaw, the way he blinked harder against the winter air like it stung more than it should have.
Without thinking, she touched his elbow lightly.
He flinched, barely, but when his eyes met hers, the anger and pain melted away into something heavier. Something aching and alive.
She swallowed. Hard.
"Let me drive," she said softly.
For a second, she thought he would argue. That stubborn, relentless male pride flashing in his eyes. But then he just nodded, slow and tired, and handed her the keys.
The silence between them was thicker now, weighted. Full of everything neither of them had said.
She drove deliberately toward town. Nash looked at her, puzzled. “I need to make a stop,” she said. “For you.”
“I’m fine?—”
“Don’t feed me crap, Nash. Shut your beautiful mouth and rest.”
“Dammit, Grace,” he chuckled with a hiss at the end. “Don’t make me laugh.” He turned to look at her. “Sass,hebbiti? I kinda like that about you.”
Her heart shuffled around a bit with the way he threw her words back at her. She stopped at the first drugstore she came to and got the items she needed. No inadequate first aid kit at the hotel would be enough to treat him fully.
The drive back to the hotel passed in a blur of headlights and snow drifting lazily across the windshield, the heater rattling to life in soft fits and starts. Grace kept her hands steady on the wheel, stealing glances at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.
He didn’t move much. Just stared out the window, his profile carved in shadow and stray reflections, the blood on his shirt stark against the dark fabric of his jacket.
By the time they reached the hotel, the sky had deepened into a navy blue so dark it almost swallowed the world whole. The lobby lights were dimmer now, the scent of pine cleaner sharper, the silence pressing against her ears.
She parked close to the entrance and cut the engine.
Neither of them moved.