Page 38 of Make Them Bleed
“You were born,” he says, like it’s obvious, and the comment flickers somewhere behind my ribs.
We move to the kitchen. He sets the bag down, pulls out a sesame bagel and a cinnamon-raisin, hands me the sesame because I’m salty by default, apparently. He’s humming under his breath, some synthy loop that could be a Maddox Security hold tone. The hum vibrates in my skull until two words float to the top:standing order.
Because that’s exactly what he says next, casual as the weather: “Standing order: you eat before your brain starts solving murders.”
The phrase knifes through me.Standing order.Hoover’s words from last night. My teeth go cold against the paper cup.
I look up, too fast. Arrow’s already reaching for a knife, splitting a bagel with focused gentleness, like he’s performing minor surgery. He hands it over to me, and my brain tries to keep up.
I bite into the bagel, mostly so I don’t sayare you Hoover?out loud. It burns all the way down.
“How was your night?” he asks, spreading cream cheese with unnecessary precision. “Sleeping? Editing? Summoning demons for content?”
“Editing,” I say too quickly. “You?”
“Firewall fun,” he says. “Then I crashed.”
Firewall fun. The words land, then slide. My mind supplies a scene of cream-lit hotel ballrooms and cigar-scented rooftops, the wordfuneralshaped by a man named Valentino. I’m going to rip his smug cobalt suit in half. Then I remember who was there beside me, a rubber scream and a steady hand. Two versions of safety perched on either side of the same person.
“Is Maddox eating your soul today?” I ask.
“Standard nibbling,” he says, tearing the bagel in half. “Dean wants me on a pen test at noon. I’ve got an hour before I head out. Thought I’d check on you.”
“You always check on me,” I mumble. It comes out half gratitude, half accusation. I’m not sure which one I mean more.
Arrow leans on the counter, eyes soft and searching. “You okay? You look…” He trails off, squinting at me like I’m code he can’t debug.
“Like a raccoon who’s been kissed by electricity?” I supply.
He grins. “I was going to say ‘like you didn’t sleep.’”
I shrug. “Weird dreams.”
“About?” His tone is light but there’s a wire beneath it.
“Killer tuxedos and…ghosts,” I say, and wait for the flinch. There is one—so small I almost miss it. He covers it by sliding the cinnamon-raisin into the bag and pressing it into my hands.
“Afternoon snack,” he says. “I’ve gotta run a few errands before Dean’s. Need anything? Batteries? String? Ten thousand sticky notes?”
My heart clanks.String and sticky notes,I think.Intel Narnia.It’s either the world’s strangest coincidence or he’s audibly confessing.
He kisses my forehead—Arrow kisses my forehead now, when did this become normal?—and the tenderness makes something ache. “Text me if you need me,” he says, and heads for the door.
“Arrow?” I blurt.
He pauses, one hand on the knob. “Yeah?”
I should ask. I should pin him to the cabinet with the truth until it stops wriggling. Instead I hear myself say, “Be careful.”
His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “You too,” he echoes, and the click as the door shuts is a gavel.
I lasttwelve minutes before I grab my keys.
If Hoover is Arrow, then Arrow isn’t just lying to me—he’s protecting me in the one way I can accept without screaming. If Hoover isn’t Arrow, then there is another man who knows the exact voltage of my fear and desire and I’ve got two parallel universes folding in on each other.
Either way, I’m done living in quantum uncertainty.
I take the stairs two at a time and hit the sidewalk just as Arrow rounds the corner onto Baylor. My body moves before my brain gives consent. I fall into a tail two storefronts back—hood up, sunglasses on, my bestdon’t look at me, I’m a sad girl in athleisurevibe. I’ve watched enough crime shows to know Rule One: don’t be interesting.
