had no idea he was with the Network—hadn’t known what he was walking into. If my father had caught him, backtracked for some reason, or followed up, that Hider would’ve had to kill him. Because if he hadn’t, I had no doubt Bruce Bello would’ve killed the Hider and my mother.
That’s what I needed to do this morning. I lie here, beside this man, and began to strip away my humanity.
When we Hiders opened the door, saw the survivor, realized the scene was safe, our humanity came back to us.
Except sometimes it didn’t.
I hated that, and I was ashamed because of it.
It was why we did what we did, but when we opened those doors, sometimes I didn’t feel a thing for the survivor. I wouldn’t feel a thing until we had already taken them where they needed to go. It was usually on the drive home that my humanity came back to me.
The car would be silent. I would be riding in the back or next to either Carol or Blade in the front, and I would gasp when it returned.
No one ever looked over at me. No one asked. I didn’t know if they knew or understood, but it wasn’t until then that I shed a tear for what we’d done. We’d helped someone, and I was grateful.
But I was also thankful because I’d gotten through it, and so had my team. Blade and Carol were like my family by now. I’d spent almost more time with them than anyone else. Almost.
Sitting up, I slipped from the bed, stood, and looked down at this man sleeping.
It wasn’t right, because at a time when I needed not to feel, that’s all I was doing. I still felt so much confusion over how I could lust so much for this murderer. I felt the same disgust with myself that I’d felt all those times when I’d needed to feel my heart and hadn’t.
I usually pushed it down. Now I didn’t.
I allowed the disgust to grow to loathing. I loathed myself. It filled every inch of my body, every pore, every cell, every hair until finally, finally it moved past me and onto him.
It was my own self-hatred, but I allowed it to spread beyond me.
I couldn’t think. If I did, it wouldn’t work. Padding around the bed, I did what I’d vowed to do two days ago.
There was a knife block in the kitchen, and I took one of the smaller ones. I knew it was just as sharp as the others, and I could wield it with better precision.
I went back to the bedroom.
The sun had begun to rise outside.
A small glimmer of light was beginning to warm the room. It was just enough. I could make out his sleeping form.
I paused in the doorway, gripping the knife.
I knew what would happen. If I killed him, he’d said I would die too. That meant I would have to do this, then bolt.
I probably wouldn’t make it, but I had to try. I would never get this chance again. I knew that with certainty. It was now or never.
I raised the knife—
—and his eyes opened.
I launched forward at the same time he shot upright. He caught me in the air. The knife flew out of my hand, and he rolled us so I was beneath him. I tried to fight, kicking at him, but he only shifted so his entire body was on top of me.
I tried to punch him; he grabbed my arms and slammed them down on the bed.
Every inch of him was plastered against me.
The whole thing happened in less than three seconds, and not a word was spoken between us.
His eyes were heated and angry, his jaw clenched. A vein stuck out in his neck. His eyebrows pulled together, and a buzz sounded at the door.
He cursed under his breath, jumping off the bed in one lithe movement. He pointed at me as he left the bedroom. “Stay.”
A moment later, he opened the apartment door. He had a brief conversation before the door shut again, and the lights in the apartment came on. He strode back into the bedroom. I hadn’t moved, and he glared at me a second.
“Get up. Get dressed. We’re leaving.”
There should’ve been a knot in my throat. But there wasn’t anything, just acceptance. My body was heated, my breathing shallow and fast.
I sat up. “Are you going to kill me?”
He snorted, pulling clothes out of his dresser. “Don’t tempt me.” His eyes