Page 9 of Oliver

“Room four. She’s close.”

I moved.

Fast.

I grabbed the metal water cup and stood with my back to the door, my pulse racing like it was race day in Tokyo all over again.

If it was them—my captors—I’d fight.

Again.

But if it wasn’t?

If it was—

The lock clicked.

And the door opened.

Two silhouettes filled the frame, armed and ready.

The taller one stepped forward first, weapon lowered.

Dark eyes. Strong jaw. Quiet power in the way he moved.

He froze.

So did I.

“Emery Blake?” he asked, voice low.

I didn’t drop the cup.

“Who’s asking?”

“Oliver Steel,” he said, slowly lowering the rifle to his side. “We’re here to get you out.”

I stared at him for half a second longer, studying the calm in his eyes, the muscle twitch in his jaw like he hadn’t breathed until now.

Then I exhaled.

Finally.

“About damn time.”

He smiled.

6

Emery

The hallway was darker than I remembered.

Or maybe it was just me—running on fumes, with bruised ribs and too many nights in a cell.

Oliver handed me a sidearm without a word. His fingers brushed mine—steady, warm, reassuring.

“I know how to use it,” I said.

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