Page 10 of Thorne
Infuriatingly steady.
It beats against my fingers, slow and controlled, and the contact sends a sharp, unwelcome awareness through my body. A tightening low in my gut. A heat that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with proximity.
I hate it.
I hate that touching her does this. That my body registers the shape of her throat, the warmth of her skin, and the quiet steadiness of her breathing as if it's information worth storing.
I tighten my grip to remind myself why I'm here.
"You do not say that name." The warning hangs between us, cold and heavy. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
She doesn't move.
Her eyes stay locked on mine.
Her pulse keeps beating against my fingers as if it's counting something only she understands.
"Yes." She doesn't flinch under my hand.
No panic.
Just that same measured calm that makes something in me want to shake her until it breaks.
I hold there.
Two seconds.
Three.
Long enough for the awareness under my skin to sharpen into something dangerous. Long enough that my body startsimagining control in ways that have nothing to do with interrogation.
That's when I release her.
I step back immediately. Putting space between us is the only way to regain control of my nerves.
I sit, pick up the Glock, and force my attention back to steel and oil and mechanical certainty.
Across from me, she says nothing.
The tent flap opens about an hour later.
Fuse steps through first, Whisper right behind him—both carrying the particular flatness of men who've been running point in the dark too long.
Whisper drops into the corner of the tent without speaking.
Fuse pauses just inside the flap.
His eyes turn to me.
Then to her.
Then back to me again, something careful settling across his face like he's already done the math on the distance between our chairs and the tension hanging in the air.
"Ghost wants us."
I reassemble the weapon. Holster it. Stand. Look at her.
"Stay. Do not move from that chair. You can try to run, but if you do, Iwillfind you." I leave it at that, watching the slide of her throat as the intent behind my words settles. And I leave her there. Not bound. Not watched. Not under the guard of anything but my warning.
