Page 114 of Only the Wicked

With a loud groan, he pushes off, pulling out of me and rolling onto his back. He rests his forearm on his forehead, chest still heaving, his deep breaths slowing. I roll onto my side, observing.

Does sex mean he’s forgiven me? The weight between us doesn’t feel like forgiveness.

What are we doing?

It’s got to be what he’s thinking, too. The red glow from his laptop screen catches my peripheral vision. The crisis that interrupted us is still there, waiting.

I study the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing hasn’t quite settled. This isn’t just post-coital vulnerability—he’s still carrying whatever weight that phone call brought. “That call earlier,” I say softly, my hand finding his chest. “You looked... Worried doesn’t cover it. Should I be concerned?” His body tenses beneath my palm, and I feel the shift immediately.

“It’s handled.” But the way his heart rate spikes tells me otherwise.

“Rhodes, if there’s a threat—to you, to ARGUS—I need to know. We’re supposed to be working together now. What are containment protocols?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, curiosity overriding post-coital etiquette. My gut clenches.

It’s probably the worst thing I could say after what we just experienced, on tentative emotional ground, but we also just agreed to take it day by day and what the hell else was I going to ask? “How was it for you?” seems absurdly inadequate after the intensity we just shared. “Have you forgiven me” is irrational. What’s wrong? That’s what I need to know.

“Security measures.” His eyes close and he swallows, the movement of his throat betraying more concern than his carefully neutral tone. “Just protective protocols. Nothing you need to worry about,” he adds, the deliberate vagueness telling me everything and nothing.

Then he pushes off the bed, strides across the room, and shuts the bathroom door behind him. The quiet click of the lock echoes in the silence.

Lying naked, I stare at the ceiling, listening to the water run. We’re hot and cold. Day by day, he said. But in my experience, with the passing of enough days, connections always shatter.

After he showers, I take my turn. Before the fogged mirrors, I take my time, not eager to return to the unease. This, right here, is exactly why I don’t do relationships. Friction always arises. It’s an unproductive waste of emotions and time. Admittedly, this time I’m to blame for the friction, but does it really matter who’s to blame? It’s still there, it’s still uncomfortable.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Rhodes’ yell thunders through the door, and I freeze, toothbrush forgotten. I strain, stepping to the door, but don’t hear anything else.

Did he call someone?

I’m not gaining anything by standing in the bathroom, so I quietly open the door, towel wrapped around me, hair dripping.

“Since when do you listen to NPC’s?” He growls each word, head bent, back to me.

Dressed in pajama pants and nothing else, his back muscles remind me of a Roman sculpture signifying the strength of man against his burdens.

“No!” he shouts. “That’s final.”

He ends the call, and it’s unclear who hung up on who, but my money’s on Rhodes ending the discussion on his terms.

He lifts the phone, stretches his arm, and I tense, expecting him to throw the phone, but he sees me, and his arm lowers. He scowls, pissed. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him, which given what he learned today about me, says something.

“You heard that?” he asks.

“Just the end.”

“Miles and I don’t always see eye to eye.”

“Is he… Did he sell the information to the highest bidder?”

“What? No. I didn’t… I told you, we have precautions in place. That was about an ongoing disagreement.”

I wait, quietly, uncertain I believe him. Calling his partner to ask about the possibility of someone selling queries, selling secrets, right after our discussion feels logical.

“He wants us to go public. It’s not going to happen.”

“What’s an NPC?”

He grimaces, exhales, and moves to plug his phone into a charger.