Page 11 of Oliver

Oliver

The safehouse was a two-bedroom stone cottage tucked into the hills above the coast—one of River’s old assets, rarely used, barely on any map.

But tonight, it felt like a lifeline.

Cyclone was in the other room, talking to River. I stood in the kitchen, watching steam curl off a chipped mug of tea.

Across the room, Emery sat on the couch—hair damp from the shower, a blanket draped over her legs, staring into space. I could tell she was scared, I guess that’s what it was. Sometimes she looked like she wanted to kill someone.

She hadn’t said much since we got here.

Didn’t cry. Didn’t fall apart.

But I’d seen the flicker in her eyes when the door first locked behind us.

She was holding everything in with white-knuckled fists.

I crossed the room and set the mug on the table beside her.

“Chamomile,” I said. “Or something pretending to be.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice low.

Silence stretched.

Then: “Do you always get dropped into missions like this?”

I smirked. “Not lately. I was trying domestic life.”

“And now?”

I looked at her.

Really looked at her.

Swollen lip. Bandaged arm. I could tell by the way her breath hitched when she didn’t know I was watching that her ribs hurt.

And still—still—holding herself up straight.

“Now I’m here.”

She met my eyes and didn’t look away.

“You weren’t what I expected,” she said quietly.

“Yeah?” I asked. “What were you expecting?”

“Someone colder. Less…” Her brow furrowed. “Human.”

I sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing her. “Cyclone used to be like that, but Jude has changed him.”

“Besides, I thought the same about you. You are way stronger than I thought you would be.”

She huffed a laugh. “Guess we both screwed that up.”

A beat passed.

Then she whispered, “I was beginning to think no one would come. I know it was only four days, but it felt like forty days. I think they were getting ready to kill me.”

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