Page 64 of Whisper

Nothing.

Minutes crawl past. Five. Ten. My hands cramp around the pistol grip.

He’s dead. He has to be dead. No one survives that much gunfire. They killed him, and now they’re coming for me, and I’m trapped in this metal box with a weapon I can’t use.

A sob builds in my throat. I press my free hand to my mouth, trying to stay quiet.

Then—three knocks. A pause. Two more.

My heart stops.

“Cooper?” I whisper.

“It’s me. Open up.”

My fingers fumble with the locks, shaking so hard I can barely work the mechanisms. When the door finally swings open, I throw myself forward—and stop.

Cooper stands in the doorway, alive but wrong. His tactical vest is torn. Blood soaks through his shirt at the shoulder and across his ribs. A cut above his left eyebrow drips red down his cheek.

“Oh God. Cooper, you’re hurt?—”

“We go. Now.” His voice is steady despite the blood.

I drop the pistol and reach for him, trying to assess the damage. “No. Not until I bandage these wounds. You’re bleeding everywhere. You could have internal injuries?—”

“Eliza.”

The tone stops me cold. The same authoritative command he used when he made me confess my deepest fantasy. When he ordered me not to pull away from his kiss.

“I give the orders.”

I look at him—really look at him. Blood-stained and battle-worn, but alive. Dominant. In control even when wounded.

Understanding floods through me, deeper than fear, stronger than panic.

“And I obey,” I whisper. It’s somehow become our mantra.

Something flashes in his eyes. Heat. Satisfaction. Recognition of the truth we both know extends far beyond this moment, this crisis.

It encompasses everything we are to each other.

He nods once. “Good girl. Now move.”

FOURTEEN

Cooper

BLEEDING OUT

Blood soaks through my shirt,warm and sticky against my ribs. The shoulder wound throbs with each heartbeat—a clean through-and-through that missed major arteries, but it’s leaking steadily. The graze along my ribs burns like fire, shallow but long. The head wound’s already clotting.

Two hours. Maybe three before blood loss becomes a real problem.

Plenty of time.

Eliza stumbles beside me as we move down the alley behind the safe house. Her breathing comes quick and shallow, pupils dilated with shock. The tactical vest I strapped on her bounces with each step, too big for her frame but it’ll stop bullets.

That’s what matters.