Page 89 of Deadly Force
"Give her the brief." He pauses, and I can hear him shuffling papers, probably already moving on to the next crisis. "And Caleb?"
"Yeah, boss?"
"Watch your back. Gym isn't the same without your ugly mug grunting under the squat rack."
Despite everything, I almost smile. Silas's way of saying he cares without getting sentimental about it. "Copy that."
The line goes dead, and I'm left standing in Brooke's kitchen, surrounded by the domestic normalcy of dish towels and coffee mugs, feeling like I'm balanced on the edge of a knife.
The mission parameters haven’t changed. But since we kissed, something fundamental has, and I’m not sure I can pretend otherwise.
Brooke
The house is dim, lit only by the warm spill of the kitchen light down the hall. Outside, cicadas hum against the desert dark, their rhythm broken now and then by the distant whine of a passing car or the rustle of wind through dry mesquite.
I pad across the cool tile, the worn floor creaking under my weight. He’s in the kitchen, back to me, buttering toast like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like cooking for me is just another part of protecting me.
The toaster hums low. The knife scrapes softly over bread. His movements are methodical—steady,practiced. As if his body won’t let him rest, so he’s giving it something to do.
He glances over his shoulder, head cocking just slightly. The shadows catch on his jaw.
“Did you even try to sleep?”
I shake my head. Biting back words I wish I didn't need to say to explain myself. "I can't. I've always been like this."
He looks me over, a wry smile on his face. "Obsessive?"
I wish I could deny it. But somehow he already knows. He's seen enough. "It's getting worse... since Eliza... it's like my discernment is broken."
Or maybe it’s like Paul says. I keep doing the things I don’t want to do.
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding, maybe pain—before he drops the toast and moves closer. "That's because you've trained yourself to live a life God never asked you to. You're ignoring all the red flags in front of you."
I try to speak, but the words are wedged in my chest, trapped behind the grief and guilt I've been carrying like stones.
He gently takes my hands. "God gave you a gift and talent to write. But He never asked you to sacrifice your health, your peace in pursuit of the truth."
His hands slide up my arms, sending shivers running up my skin. "You keep burning the candle atboth ends, Brooke..." His voice softens. "Eventually, there's nothing left to burn."
I chew my lip, trying not to let him see how much his words are sinking into a tender part of me. “So what am I supposed to do? Just... stop caring? Stop trying to make things right?”
His jaw relaxes, the lines around his eyes easing. “Remember Elijah?” His thumb traces across my knuckles. “The part where he runs off into the desert after Jezebel vows to kill him? He sits under a tree and asks God to take his life.”
I blink, confused. “This doesn’t really apply here, does it?”
“Sure it does. God doesn’t rebuke him. He sees that Elijah’s exhausted. Done. He gives him food. Then tells him to rest.”
Caleb pulls out his phone, scrolls, and holds it out so I can read. His other hand stays wrapped around mine.
He ate and drank and then lay down again... The angel of the Lord came back a second time and said, ‘Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.’
“Food and a nap,” I echo.
Caleb gestures toward the toast. “I’m no angel, but it’ll do the trick.”
When I hesitate, he doesn’t let up. “Brooke, this isn’t just dedication anymore. It’s recklessness. With your health. Your judgment. Your safety. That’s notserving God, it’s serving your own need to control things you can’t.”
The words land hard. My eyes fill with the tears I’ve been holding back. “Wow. Tell me the truth, why don’t you.”
