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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Knight

She falls silent after my question, which is probably for the best since I don’t have an answer to it anyway. The painkillers should be kicking in by now. Dissolved medication works faster than pills, though it tastes like shit. At least she managed to drink it all, despite not wanting to.

What I do know is that someone got access to my codes somehow, created an entire digital persona around my name, and spent weeks grooming this woman to walk straight into my apartment. The level of planning involved is … concerning. The fact that it worked is fucking infuriating. Almost as infuriating as having to play nurse to someone I had in handcuffs an hour ago. I don’t need the distraction from figuring out why someone wanted her in my apartment.

But her wrists are a mess, and I can’t ignore that. The cuffs have cut deep. I’m not sure if they’re deep enough to leave scars, but definitely enough to need more than a Band-aid. The sight bothers me more than it should.

Most security breaches don’t leave visible evidence. But then, most of them don’t also come in the form of a person. Usually when someone breaches my security, I don't have to worry about their medical care afterward. Files don't bleed and code doesn't leave scars. This one is going to require a different kind of damage control.

“I need to clean your wrists. Unless you want to risk infection.”

She looks down at her hands like she’s forgotten they exist. Her movements are slower now, the edge of panic dulling as the medication starts to do its work.

“I can’t?—”

“Move properly. Yes, I know.” I stand. “Stay put.”

A laugh that sounds more like a sob follows me as I head to the bathroom.

“Where exactly would I go?”

The first aid kit under the sink is well-stocked. People tend to shoot at hackers more often than the movies would suggest. Though, usually I’m patching myself up, not taking care of someone I put into restraints.

The kit lands on the bathroom counter with a dull thud. Cotton. Antiseptic. Gauze. The familiar tools of patching up injuries that can’t be explained to doctors. I sort through supplies, tossing things I don’t need to one side until I find the butterfly bandages. Some of the cuts on her wrists are so deep, they’re going to need more than just antiseptic.

She’s listing sideways on the couch when I return to the living room, one shoulder pressed against the back cushions like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes track my movement with the kind of focus that takes visible effort. The medication is definitely hitting her system. Her pupils are slightly dilated, her movements uncoordinated. But there’s a new edge of defiance in the way she watches me approach, like she’s ready to fight, even though her body doesn’t have the strength or the energy to back up the attitude.

"This is going to sting." I sit beside her, keeping my movements slow and careful. No sudden gestures. No unnecessary contact. "Try not to punch me again. My face has had enough contact with your fists for one day."

Her eyes flutter open. "You deserved it."

"I’m sure I did." I pour antiseptic onto gauze.

"Still doesn't mean I want a repeat performance."

The first touch of antiseptic against the wounds makes her hiss, but she doesn't pull away. The cuts are deep, angry red lines that speak of hours struggling against metal. Some will need the butterfly bandages to help them heal properly. My phone buzzes. There are only a couple of people who have my private number.

Bishop or Rook.

I ignore it. One crisis at a time.

She watches my hands with an intensity that suggests she's trying not to think about anything else. Each touch of the antiseptic makes her fingers twitch, but she stays quiet, making me believe that speaking would require more energy than she has left. The butterfly bandages go on first, pulling the worst cuts closed. Then gauze to keep them clean. It's familiar work, even if the patient isn't usually someone I put the injuries on in the first place.

"You have a terrible bedside manner," she mumbles, her words starting to slur. "Did you learn first aid from WebMD or a YouTube tutorial?"

I pause in my wrapping. "Did you learn breaking and entering from WikiHow?"

A sound escapes her that might have been a laugh under different circumstances. "Didn't break anything. Had codes." Her head drops forward, then jerks back up. "Your codes. But not yours. His codes. Knight's codes."

"I am Knight." I secure the gauze maybe a bit tighter than necessary.

"No." She shakes her head, then seems to regret the movement. "You're ... mean. He was nice."

"He wasn't real." I move to her other wrist, paying attention to how the words affect her even through the medication haze. "And nice isn't a required survival trait in my line of work."

She watches through half-lidded eyes as I clean her other wrist. This one is worse. Dark bruises are already forming beneath the cuts.

My phone buzzes again. Twice in ten minutes means it’s Bishop, and he’s getting impatient, which also means he'll show up if I don't answer soon. That's all I need—him walking in on this mess. I should have known he wasn’t satisfied with my explanation earlier. It was too easy. No arguments, no pushing for more answers.

"It doesn't make sense," she finally whispers, head drooping slightly before she catches herself. "Any of it."

"No, it doesn't." I secure another piece of gauze. "Which is what's bothering me. I don't like puzzles I can't solve."

Her eyes drift closed, then snap open. "Knight wouldn't ..." She swallows hard. “He wouldn't just …”

“Stop.” I focus on wrapping her wrist. “The person you were messaging doesn't exist. The sooner you accept that, the better. Though I have to admit, the cat memes were a nice touch. Really sold the whole friendly neighborhood hacker vibe they were going for.”

“But he helped …” Her head sinks forward again.

“He manipulated you.” I tie off the bandage. “And while you sleep, I'm going to figure out why.”

She tries to lift her head, but it seems too heavy for her neck. “I’m not going to sleep.”

I don’t answer her. It's not like I can interrogate her now. She's barely stringing sentences together. But later, when she's coherent enough to actually process questions, she might be the key to understanding how deep this deception goes. For now though, she needs to sleep off whatever's in her system.

“You don’t really expect me to sleep? Here?” But there's no bite to the question. Her eyes keep closing despite her obvious fight to stay awake.

“Get some rest before you hurt yourself trying to be clever.”

“Already did that.” I'm not sure if she means hurting herself or being clever. “Trusted the wrong Knight …”

I grab a throw from the back of a chair. “Go to sleep, Glitch.” I stand there and watch until the anomaly in my carefully ordered existence finally loses her battle with consciousness.

I need to get back to my workstation and figure out who gained access to my security codes. I need to understand why someone would go to this much trouble.

But first, I need coffee.

A lot of coffee.

And maybe some aspirin.

Because it turns out stubbornness has one hell of a right hook.