Page 9 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

He stood abruptly, the chair rolling backward across the room. He paced to the window, pressing his palms against the glass like he needed something solid to push against.

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know."

Matthew pressed his forehead against the glass. "Is he safe?"

"Define safe. One step out of line, and they'll activate another asset to eliminate him. That's how Hoyle maintains loyalty—golden cage or shallow grave, your choice."

He had stepped out of line, and Farid might already be dead.

Matthew turned back to face me. "How do you know all this?"

"Because I was inside the network for over five years.

Courier, intelligence liaison, whatever they needed.

I thought I was working for legitimate humanitarian operations until I started seeing the patterns.

" I gestured at the laptop screen. "Hoyle doesn't only collect information.

He collects people. Rebuilds them. Uses them until they're no longer useful. "

"And then?"

"Then they have accidents. Disappear. Get transferred to operations that don't exist." I stared into his eyes. "There was a boy in Istanbul, Ercan. Nineteen. He thought I was saving him. I handed him off to what I thought was a refugee liaison. He hasn't been seen since."

Matthew absorbed the information the same way he probably processed medical trauma—collecting facts, assessing damage, and calculating what he could save. His face gave nothing away, but I watched his hands open and close at his sides.

"And a Hoyle asset put that bullet in you on the freeway?"

I nodded. "That's a solid conclusion."

"Why come here?"

The question cut deeper than I'd expected. I could have tried to run anywhere—Portland, Vancouver, or disappeared into the Pacific Northwest's endless forests. I could have contacted other assets, activated emergency protocols, and followed contingency plans designed for this situation.

But Farid helped bring me to Matthew. He had his reasons, and I had mine.

"Because you looked at me like I was still a person, even when I wasn't sure I was."

I didn't mean to let my voice catch. But it did, just once. That single breath of hesitation was louder to me than the gunshot that started this all.

Matthew stepped closer. His eyes searched my face.

His voice was soft. "You are."

"What?"

"Still a person."

He reached up and cupped my jaw with one hand, palm warm against my skin. His thumb brushed across the stubble along my cheekbone. I held my breath.

Then he kissed me.

It wasn't desperate or demanding. It was nothing like the calculated seductions I'd endured from handlers who confused intimacy with control. Matthew's lips pressed against mine with care, like he was asking a question instead of taking an answer.

I'd let men touch me before. Let them kiss me when the job called for it. They were people who wanted to own pieces of me I couldn't afford to give. I always pretended it didn't cost anything.

This was different. Matthew kissed me like he saw me and wanted a stronger connection.

My training screamed that attachment was operational suicide.

I didn't want to need anyone. I especially didn't want to need him.

But the truth was, I was tired. I was injured.

I was in hiding and out of options. There weren't many people I could still trust—but Farid had proven he was one of them, and was Matthew one, too?

I was supposed to be dead, but for the first time in eight months, running felt like the wrong choice. I'd learned to see people as resources, threats, or obstacles. Matthew had somehow become none of those things, and I had no protocols for what he was instead.

It was the most dangerous impulse I'd felt in years.

I reached for the front of his t-shirt, curling my fingers into the soft cotton. His free hand settled at the small of my back, steadying me without trapping me.

When we broke apart, neither of us moved away. His breath warmed the air between us.

"I should go," I whispered.

"You don't have to."

I sighed heavily and exhaled, and then didn't leave.

The decision surprised me. For eight months, movement had meant survival. Stillness meant discovery, capture, and elimination. Every instinct inside me screamed for me to disappear before Matthew changed his mind about harboring a wanted man.

I pushed it all to the back of my mind and lay on his couch. The kiss had scrambled my internal compass. It wasn't desire I felt. It was the terrifying suggestion that someone might still see me as worth saving.

Matthew closed the laptop with a soft click and walked to the kitchen. I heard the familiar sounds of domestic routine—cabinet doors opening, the whisper of tea bags, and water running into a kettle. The domestic noise belonged to people who stayed in the same place long enough to develop habits.

He didn't ask what I wanted or whether I was hungry. He moved through his morning ritual quietly, like a soldier maintaining his gear without conscious thought. When he returned, he carried two steaming mugs and set mine on the coffee table within easy reach.

"Thank you." The words irritated my throat.

He settled into his chair across from me, cradling his mug between both hands. Neither of us mentioned the kiss. Neither of us mentioned Farid, Hoyle, or the digital evidence. We sat in the growing daylight and drank tea like ordinary people having a mundane morning.

Matthew wanted nothing I could identify, and that disoriented me more than any interrogation technique I'd endured.

Around nine, he disappeared into the kitchen again. I heard the refrigerator open. He cracked eggs, and I heard butter sizzling in a hot pan.

When he returned with two plates, I started to refuse. "You don't have to—"

"I know." He set one plate on the coffee table beside my tea. "But I made extra anyway."

The scrambled eggs were pale yellow and perfectly soft, accompanied by toast cut diagonally and a small mound of fresh strawberries. It was food designed for comfort.

I ate mechanically at first, refueling my body with the same detachment I'd use to service a weapon. Matthew finished his breakfast and watched me patiently until I cleared the entire plate.

When was the last time someone had waited to make sure I finished eating?

As a day of discovery and tension lay ahead, Matthew retrieved the laptop and settled back into his reading, scrolling through files with the methodical attention of someone trying to understand a complex medical case.

His face was expressionless. There was no anger apparent as he processed the evidence of systematic deception and human trafficking disguised as humanitarian operations.

I closed my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under again. Each time I returned to consciousness, Matthew was in his chair, a solid, calming presence.

Neither of us said anything about the kiss, but the silence wasn't cold. It was the two of us existing in the same space.

Matthew took breaks for meals and snacks.

I ate a turkey sandwich for dinner at his urging.

He read for hours, occasionally making soft sounds of recognition or disgust as he revealed another piece of Hoyle's machinery.

When the last light of day faded, the laptop screen cast a pale light across his features, highlighting the concentration lines between his eyebrows.

I lay awake on the couch, listening to the ambient sounds as the building settled into the night. Matthew's neighbor's television went silent upstairs. Traffic sounds from the street below thinned to occasional cars and the distant hum of the freeway.

Matthew finally closed the laptop. "I can take the floor," I announced.

He looked up, blinking. "What?"

"Tonight. I've slept in worse places than hardwood. I'd suggest you use your bed, but you won't leave me out of sight. So, the couch is yours."

"You're still healing." He stood and stretched, joints popping. "Chair is fine."

"You've been sleeping in that chair for two nights."

"I'm used to uncomfortable sleeping arrangements." He moved to the window, checking the locks with automatic precision. "Besides, it's my couch, and I'm offering it to you."

I couldn't argue with that, and I knew the sleeping arrangements weren't really about furniture. Matthew was positioning himself between me and the door, close enough to intervene if I tried to disappear again.

I watched him move through the apartment, noting how he tested each lock twice. In hushed tones, he called in to work to leave a message about taking another day off.

He settled back into his chair with a paperback book. "Bathroom's free if you need it."

Matthew had been expecting company, or he had made sure he'd prepared for it. In his bathroom, he left me a spare toothbrush in original packaging, travel-sized toothpaste, and a disposable razor.

When I returned to the living room, he'd dimmed the overhead light and switched on a small reading lamp. I arranged myself on the couch, testing how the stitches pulled when I moved. The pain had settled into a manageable ache, present but not overwhelming. My body demanded more rest.

Matthew inquired about my comfort. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"Uh-huh." He turned a page. "You're breathing like someone planning to run a marathon."

I forced my breathing to slow. "Better?"

"Getting there."

Matthew remained focused on me even while still reading his book.

I closed my eyes and tried to convince my nervous system to relax for the first time in weeks, maybe months. I told myself the man reading ten feet away wasn't a threat to monitor. He was a presence to appreciate.

As I drifted into sleep, a nightmare came without warning.

Suddenly, I was back in the concrete room where they'd held me for three days, fluorescent lights burning overhead like dead suns. Hoyle's voice echoed off the bare walls, calm and reasonable as he explained why cooperation was my only viable option.

A man beside him wore latex gloves. He sliced my skin with surgical precision. It was a knife cut that wasn't deep enough to cause permanent damage. It was only enough to remind me that pain was a choice.

I tried to speak and give them what they wanted, but the words wouldn't come. My tongue felt swollen and useless. Then the walls started closing in.

I jolted awake with a gasp. Sweat soaked the t-shirt Matthew had lent me, cold and clammy against my overheated skin. My heart pounded hard enough to make the stitches ache.

The apartment was dark except for the reading lamp, casting a small pool of warm light around Matthew's chair. The book lay open on his lap, but he stared at me.

"Easy." His voice cut through the lingering fragments of the dream. "You're safe."

He rose and crossed over to kneel beside the couch—no sudden movements or demands for an explanation.

I struggled to sit up, my breathing still ragged and uncontrolled. The apartment's familiar details slowly reassembled around me—exposed ductwork, brick walls, and the soft glow of Seattle streetlights through the windows.

"Dorian." Matthew's hand settled on my shoulder, lightly touching and anchoring me to the present moment. "It's okay. You're in Seattle. You're safe."

The weight of his palm against my shoulder was real in a way the nightmare couldn't touch. I focused on that contact, using it to pull myself back from the depths of my memories.

He didn't flinch while my breathing gradually returned to normal. The sweat cooling on my skin made me shiver, but I didn't want to move away from Matthew's hand.

Matthew gently squeezed my shoulder. "Better?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice yet. My throat felt raw, like I'd been screaming, though I couldn't remember making any sound.

Matthew didn't pull away or return to his chair. He stayed kneeling beside the couch, patient as stone.

Without conscious thought, I touched his wrist where it rested against the couch cushion. I didn't grab or hold on, only rested my fingertips against the warm skin where his pulse ran close to the surface.

"Thank you for not asking."

Matthew's expression softened in the lamplight. "Everyone's got ghosts. Yours are just newer than most."

A few minutes later, he rose. I expected him to return to his chair. Instead, he walked to his bedroom doorway and paused, one hand on the frame.

"I should probably get some actual sleep."

"You should." I pulled the wool blanket higher, tucking it under my chin. "I'm fine now."

He nodded slowly and disappeared into the bedroom. I heard the soft sounds of him moving around—dresser drawers opening, the rustle of fabric, and water running in his bathroom sink.

When Matthew emerged five minutes later, he wore different clothes—a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants that looked like they'd seen plenty of nights like this. He brought with him a pillow and a heavier blanket.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting comfortable." He arranged the pillow in his chair and shook out the blanket. "Chair's not that bad once you get the angle right."

"Matthew, you don't have to—"

"I know." He pulled the blanket across his lap and reached for his book. "But I'm not really tired yet anyway."

I drifted off knowing that someone was watching over me, not with the cold calculation of a handler monitoring an asset, but with the simple human impulse to protect something fragile. Matthew had built a wall between me and my nightmares, letting me finally rest.

When I woke again, pale morning light filtered through the windows, and Matthew was still in his chair, breathing deeply and even. I lay still and watched him sleep.