Page 54 of Thorne
It's the lack of fight that tortures me. If she'd scream, if she'd lie, if she'd tell me she was innocent, I could hate her with a clean conscience. But this quiet acceptance, this way she offers herself up to my anger, makes me want to crush the life out of her and pull her against me all at once.
I want to ruin that silence. I want to ruin her.
I lead her toward the main workroom. My grip is bruisingly tight. She shrinks in on herself as we walk. Her shoulders hunch. Her head bows as if she's trying to disappear into the fabric of the shirt I gave her. It's too big on her, the collar sliding just enough to show that curve of skin I spent the last half hour imagining.
She's a plague that found its way into the heart of my family, and I'm the fool letting her colonize my head.
The workroom is a hive of activity, the smell of stale coffee and humming electronics hitting me like a wall. Halo is hunched over three different monitors, his fingers flying across the keys. He doesn't look up as we enter.
He knows I'm too close to this. He just doesn't know how close.
I shove Stratton toward the empty chair next to him.
"Work."
She sinks into the seat without a word, her delicate hands trembling slightly as she reaches for the keyboard to continue the grueling work of reconstructing the secondary deployment protocols. The ones that actually track the names of the children Phoenix touched. My daughter's name is somewhere in that digital graveyard, and the woman who helped put it there is sitting three inches away from me, smelling of the same soap I have on my skin.
I stand behind her for a moment longer than I should, my shadow falling over her hands. I want to lean down, to whisper something vile in her ear just to see her flinch, but the heavy silence of the room stops me.
"Thorne. A word."
Ghost's voice is low, but it cuts through the hum like a blade. He's leaning against the doorframe of the small kitchenette, his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't look angry; he looks clinical.
That's worse.
I let go of Stratton's chair. My knuckles are white from how hard I was gripping the plastic. I follow him. I feel her eyes on my back, a phantom weight that vanishes the moment I turn the corner.
Ghost waits until we're out of earshot of the main area. Brass and Torque are over by the window, ostensibly checking the perimeter, but their silence is too deliberate. They're listening.
"Just checking in."
"Yeah?"
"I've seen you in deep cover, and I've seen you under interrogation." Ghost's dark eyes search mine, unblinking and heavy with concern. "You don't shake. But right now, you're vibrating."
"I'm fine," I snap, the lie tasting like the copper back in the shower. "I'm just tired of looking at her face. I want the protocols finished so we can bury Phoenix and be done with her."
"Is that why you've been taking every watch?" Ghost steps closer, dropping his voice. "The guys are talking. Fuse thinks you're going to snap and break her neck before we get the rest of the encryption keys. Whisper says you're acting like she's a live grenade you're trying to smother with your own body."
I look past him, my jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. "You expect me to sit back and have a beer while she works a room away from my daughter?"
"I expect you to be a professional." The disappointment in Ghost's tone stings worse than the friction on my skin. "If you can't maintain distance, I'm putting Brass on her."
The idea of Brass touching her, even just to lead her down the hall, makes something primitive and ugly roar to life in my chest. The idea of anyone else being that close to her, seeing the way her collarbone dips when she breathes, is intolerable.
"No," I say, a bit too fast, a bit too loud. Brass glances over his shoulder. I force myself to exhale, lowering my volume. "It's my daughter. Stratton is mine. I'll keep it tight."
"Keep it tight then. Do we understand each other?" Ghost studies me for a long, quiet minute. He's a human lie detector, and I'm currently a walking neon sign of conflicting impulses.
"Understood," I mutter.
I turn back toward the workroom, my heart still hammering that rhythm of pure shame. I have to pass her to get to the coffeepot. As I walk by, the scent of her catches me. The soap, the faint metallic tang of the equipment, and something else that's just her. She doesn't look up, but her hands shake.
She knows. She knows I'm losing it. And God help me, she wants me to. She thinks she deserves whatever punishment I choose to met out.
"Julianna, I've got the fourth tier of the Oregon distribution up," Halo mutters, not looking up. "Does the logic for the rural clinics match the urban centers?"
"No." Stratton doesn't look up, her hands hovering above the keyboard, her voice quiet. "The rural clinics were subsidized through a shell. You'll find the bridge under the 'Med-Core' tab. The sequences were staggered to account for transport lag."
