Page 13 of Avenging Jessie
Back at the hotel, they didn’t speak. Spence made sure their rooms weren’t compromised and then asked her if she was able to change on her own.
Feeling more like herself, she insisted she was. Now, she stared at the dress in the mirror. At the bruises blooming beneath the makeup. She peeled off the wig. Stripped away the armor. The performance.
And for a moment, she let herself feel it—the terror. The fury. The electricity still dancing through her limbs.
They weren’t safe anymore. But maybe that was the point.
She hadn’t come here to play it safe. She’d come to end this, and she’d do whatever it took to make sure she did.
Six
Spence
The apartment wasabove a bakery that hadn’t seen a health inspection since the Cold War. The scent of yeast and cinnamon clung to the furniture, but Spence barely registered it.
The safehouse apartment was sparse, featuring a sloped ceiling, a threadbare rug, and a kitchenette the size of a postage stamp—but secure. It was close quarters and did nothing for his restlessness, but it would hold, for now.
Spence kicked the door shut behind them and engaged the deadbolt. Three more locks followed, all of which were old-school. Manual. No digital footprint. The place was a dead zone—no Wi-Fi, no Bluetooth, no easy signals to trace. Just the way he wanted it. He could link to a secure Agency-approved satellite for what he needed, and no one could pick up on his extracurricular activities.
Jessie sank onto the worn striped couch without a word. Her eyes were glassy. That slap at the gala must have been brutal. Her ankle was swollen. She did her best to hide her limp, but he’d noticed it. He noticed everything about her.
They’d stopped at the hotel only long enough to change and grab their things. He set down his go-bag and crossed the room, kneeling in front of her. “Let me check you over.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice lacked conviction.
“You’re limping, your face is bruised, and you haven’t blinked in forty seconds. You’re not fine.”
She pushed against his shoulders and stood. “Spence?—”
He didn’t budge. “Sit down, shut your gob, and let me help, luv.”
Something flickered in her eyes. She bit her tongue, but didn’t move. “Gob?”
“Mouth.”
“I know what it means. Just surprised you’d be so impolite when I’m injured.”
He chuckled. “If you want impolite, I can use my street vernacular, which consists of plenty of curses and vulgarities, and you just said you were fine.”
She winced. “You got me, okay? I’m not fine, but I will be. I don’t need a nursemaid.”
He angled her chin toward the light and examined her pupils. One was slightly more dilated. Just as he suspected, she had a mild concussion. “So I’m only good for wig detail and finding a safehouse?”
A one-shouldered shrug. “You have various uses.”
In the bathroom, he rummaged through the cabinets and found a few first aid supplies. When he returned, she was still standing. Swaying, of course, but staying on her feet just for spite. So damned stubborn.
“Sit.” He dropped the first aid stuff on the coffee table and pointed at the couch cushion. “I’m not asking. Do it, or I’ll put you on your ass.”
Jessie gave him the kind of look that had once made grown men rethink their careers. He didn’t flinch. “Foot up.”
With exaggerated exasperation, she muttered, “Fine,” and herself with rigid control. As she lifted her leg, he sat on the coffee table and took it, bringing it to his lap.
He peeled off her shoe gently, his hands steady, but his pulse was going haywire. Her foot was bare inside the blue sneaker, her skin bruised and motled on the outside of the ankle. Her calf flexed under his touch, and she hissed.
“Breathe,” he said, not sure if it was for her or him.
He pressed his thumb lightly along her ankle bone, gauging the damage. Jessie’s mouth twitched. Another hiss escaped her sexy lips.
