Page 87 of Whisper

“Come here,” he says.

It’s not a command this time. Not a test or a game.

It’s an offer.

I go.

He draws me toward the cot tucked in the corner of the room—thin mattress, threadbare blanket, but it’s better than concrete. He sits first, jaw tight with effort, then pulls me gently into his lap, shifting us both down until we’re lying across it, my body tucked against his good side. His breath is ragged. His shoulder must be screaming. But he doesn’t make me sleepalone.

“You’ve got nine hours,” he murmurs, voice low near my temple. “Before extraction. Maybe less if we’re unlucky. Either way—we rest now.”

I nod, my fingers curling lightly against his side, over the bruised ribs I know he’s ignoring. I want to ask him what all this meant. What we are now. What comes next.

But none of it matters here.

Not in this abandoned room. Not between a woman who finally said her fantasy aloud and the man who answered it without blinking.

His hand finds my back. Just rests there. Warm. Protective. A silent vow.

And as my eyes drift closed, exhaustion finally overtaking adrenaline, I feel it settle inside me—not fear. Not regret.

But this quiet, impossible thing I don’t have a name for.

Maybe later, when we’re safe, I’ll find the words.

But for now, there’s nothing left to do but sleep.

And trust that when I wake, he’ll still be alive.

TWENTY-ONE

Cooper

EXTRACTION

Eliza sleepslike it costs her everything.

Pressed tight to my uninjured side, breathing slow and even, cheek tucked against my chest like she trusts me to keep the world from caving in. Maybe I do. Maybe that’s what’s been happening since the second I laid eyes on her—this slow, tectonic shift from detached protector to something else entirely.

Her body still carries the heat of what we did. I can feel the echo of it in the air between us. In the way her hand curls into the hem of my shirt like she won’t let go.

I don’t want her to.

God help me, I don’t want her to let go.

I used to think sex was best kept clean. Quick. Equal pleasure and no promises. No names. No numbers. Just relief, then silence.

But this?

This isn’t relief.

It’s a detonation.

And now I’m lying here with a woman tucked against my ribs, her scent all over my skin, her breath stirring against my chest—and I’m not restless. I’m not counting the minutes until Ican slip out. I’m just here. And for the first time in years, that feels like enough.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. Not ever. I drift, but never fall. Constantly aware of the dark. The weight of silence. The feel of pressure shifting when someone enters a room. It’s what kept me alive in war zones and alleyways. What’s kept me breathing long after I probably shouldn’t be alive.

It’s that same instinct that jolts me now.