Page 14 of Code Name: Ember
I step aside so Tessa can lock the door behind us, watching the way her hands steady themselves before she slides the dead bolt home.
Whatever this is, whether it’s unfinished business, collateral damage, or some sort of second chance, it’s about to get very messy.
CHAPTER 4
Tessa
Iwakeslowly,thewayyou do when your body is exhausted but your mind refuses to stay quiet.
For a moment, I don’t recognize the ceiling above me.It isn’t the soft off-white of my bedroom in Fremont.The sheets are crisp, heavier than mine, and the mattress doesn’t dip the way it should.
Then it comes back to me in a rush.
Erik.
The garage.
Cole.
I push myself up onto my elbows and take in the room properly.It’s spare but not impersonal—muted gray walls that smell faintly of fresh paint, a single framed black-and-white photograph of the Seattle waterfront hung above a low dresser.No personal items.It’s the guest room of someone who lives alone and doesn’t expect company often.
Cole’s apartment.
My memories of last night after leaving my home are blurred from my exhaustion fighting with the remnants of adrenaline.
I sort of remember the quiet drive into Pioneer Square—brick buildings rising out of the dark, the streets quieter at that hour but not empty.I’d asked him where we were going, and he’d said simply, “Work.”
The building looked typical from the outside.Restored brick.Romanesque arches on the upper floors.Ornate stonework.A building that would house perhaps a law firm or boutique investment group.
Then he’d turned into the alley.
A steel garage door had blended so seamlessly into the stonework that I almost missed it.A small box mounted on a pole stood sentry… the type you hold up a badge to for entry.But Cole leaned toward it through his open window and I gasped when I saw a red scanning beam move over those expressive green-gold eyes.
The door lifted, we entered a private parking garage, and Cole pulled into a corner spot.Next was a smooth ride in an elevator, after which he guided me down a quiet corridor that had apartments on either side—wood doors with brass knockers and labeled with letters instead of numbers.
He led me to apartment C and opened the door with an electronic key.
“This is where you work?”I’d asked.
“And live,” he said.
The apartment itself had surprised me.A blend of modern steel and reclaimed wood, tall ceilings, exposed brick on one wall.That’s about all I’d taken in before he walked me straight to this room, told me to sleep, and I’d been too wrung out to argue.
Now, in the daylight, I hear movement beyond the door.A soft clink of ceramic.The low gurgle of a coffee machine.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and engage in a long yawn and stretch.I grab a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt from my bag, lace on some sneakers and run a quick brush through my hair before I decide I’m ready to face Cole.
When I open the bedroom door, the apartment unfolds in front of me—a long, spacious living area anchored by a kitchen island of dark stone.Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, the morning light diffused by the usual haze drifting over the city.
Cole stands at the island with his back partially to me, hip leaning against the counter.He has a mug of coffee steaming in one hand, the other hand working the track pad on his laptop as he reviews something.Morning light from the wall of windows catches along the hard line of his shoulders and the thick column of his neck.
I look for the differences or similarities after five years apart.His dark hair is slightly longer on top than the military cut he used to wear.He has it pushed back in a way that exposes the scar near his temple I used to trace with my fingertip when he couldn’t sleep.It wasn’t anything so interesting as a war wound, but rather he’d run into the corner of a cabinet when he was a kid, earning a handful of stitches.
He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt that stretches clean across his back and chest, fitted in a way that showcases his dedication to the gym.The sleeves hug his upper arms, and I know—without seeing them—that the ink beneath is still there.The compass on his left bicep, the wildfire line work circling his right that he had placed as a permanent reminder of the heat he’s walked through.
Cole turns just enough that I catch his profile—the sharp plane of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble he never quite shaves smooth, the straight line of his nose that was broken once and set well enough to pass.His mouth is firm but not unkind, lips pressed together around whatever he’s thinking.His eyes, when they flick toward me, are the same unusual shade of hazel that used to pin me in place and make me forget what argument I was trying to win.
I forgot how handsome he is.
