Page 53 of Whisper

First thing I do is check the perimeter.

The cameras feed into my tablet. Every angle covered—alley, rooftop, street. Nothing but the usual foot traffic. A mail truck. Jogger. Woman walking a dog in a puffer coat.

Still, I scan each frame twice. Then a third time.

My hand rests on the sidearm holstered at my thigh like it’s an extension of my body. Because it is. That’s what I do—I protect.

And she is under my protection now.

Even if what happened between us complicates the hell outof that.

I scrub a hand down my face.

Fuck.

She’s going to wake up, and she’s going to talk. Verbally process. Deconstruct what we did until it turns clinical. Intellectual. Safer.

And I won’t know what to say. I’ll just sit there like a fucking statue while she redefines what was the most perfect, primal, filthy thing I’ve ever experienced.

I shouldn’t want to hear her say it.

But I do.

I want her to admit it mattered.

I want her to say she meant it when she begged to be used. That it wasn’t just adrenaline or fear or some fucked-up survival instinct. That it was her.

But I won’t ask.

Because I don’t deserve that kind of honesty.

And because I’m not sure I can handle what she says if it’s not what I want to hear.

So I do the only thing I know how to do.

I check the doors. Recheck the windows. Pull up the schematics of the house and make sure every alarm is armed, every blind spot covered.

I order food. Just enough. Protein-heavy. Fuel for both of us.

Then I sit down at the table and stare at the wall.

And I wait.

Like the idiot soldier who just fucked the one woman who could wreck him.

I check on her.

Can’t help it.

She hasn’t moved much. One leg kicked out from the sheets. Lips parted. Hair a goddamn mess. There’s a bruise on her hip I don’t remember giving her, and I can feel it—low in my gut—how badly I want to mark her again.

Not rough. Not now.

But mine.

The flash drive’s still on the floor where it landed.

I crouch beside it. Rest my forearms on my knees. Just look.