Page 40 of Ravens
God, what if I’m developing Stockholm? Is his dick performing some trickery on my mind? Would it be that bad if it were at this point? There are worse things—I could be tied to a chair in the bowels of the Agency right now, being tortured for something I didn’t do. Comparatively, this is a much milder fate.
When we can’t beat ’em, we join ’em, I remind myself in the recesses of my mind. At least for now.
I shift until my head is resting on his chest, and after an uncertain moment, I pull the sleeping bag over us and wrap my arm around him. He inhales me again, like he did the night before, then kisses the top of my head, and my chest constricts.
I’m in over my head in so many fucking ways.
Twenty-One
York wakes me just after dawn, and we pack just as the rain starts. It’s chilly and miserable, and by the time I get the tent rolled and bagged, my fingers are numb. Within the hour, the whole camp is dismantled, and August is stirring the doused ashes of the fire, letting the rain stifle any remaining embers.
Everyone departs wordlessly in different directions, and I keep my gun at the ready as York and I walk through the woods in the watery morning light. The rain doesn’t let up, and my feet are soggy by the time we make it back to the road a couple of hours later. I’m tired, hungry, and chilled through when I get in the car, and the drive back feels like forever.
Time protracts as I watch the wilderness whip by and give way to bits of civilization before plunging us back into a corridor of endless trees. The next thing I know, we’re climbing the warehouse stairs, and then I’m under the hot spray of York’s showerhead.
The cut on my head is almost healed, so I scrub my hair vigorously. My shoulder feels better, but the skin is still tender. The bruise has turned varying shades of yellow, and my forearms look similar. When my wrists finish healing, I’ll bear some scars.
After washing twice, I dry off and French braid my hair. The color looks awful now, and I’m going to need to strip my hair entirely to fix it. I should start using wigs.
The apartment is empty when I come out of the bathroom, so I root through York’s dresser and change into some borrowed clothing before flopping down on the bed.
Tenting it for a couple of nights without even a pillow for comfort does not make for restful sleep. This bed is soft and inviting, and I don’t even get under the blanket before I feel heavy with sleep.
***
Warm hands slide up my legs, and I stretch, turning my face into the bed. Rain is still pattering against the windows, and the scent of his aftershave wafts around me.
“I’m looking forward to hearing you in full stereo again.” York pushes up the shirt and slides his hands over my ass. “I like the sounds you make when it hurts.”
He’s fucking shameless, and I hate that I like it. I may even be starting to crave it. Huffing out a lungful of air into the blanket, I shift, and his hand comes down on my bare ass. It makes myhead snap up with a hiss, before he kisses the spot and climbs off the bed.
“I have to show you something.”
Over my shoulder, he walks away in nothing but a pair of flannel pants, and I track him through the room until he stops by the couches. I roll off the bed and rub my ass cheek as I pass by the kitchen and stop at the coffee table covered in papers.
“I want the Director,” he says flatly.
“I’ve figured that much out already . . .” I kneel beside the table and sift through the papers. “But why? It won’t stop them from coming after me.”
“It’s not about you.”
My eyes flick from the papers to him briefly. “Be honest.”
“Do you really think Will, Carter, or fucking August—people who don’t even know you—would risk themselves for you?” He sinks back into the leather couch and watches me from beneath heavy lids. “Why didn’t the Agency kill you when they grabbed you?”
“I told you, they used you to single me out . . . but I haven’t done anything.” I shuffle through a few of the topmost papers. “I don’t know why you picked me, but now they think I’m a fucking traitor. They want to torture me for information. I imagine I need to be alive for that.”
“Theythinkyou’re a traitor?”
“You’ve made me look like one!” I slap my hand on the table. “My life as I knew it is over because of you.”
“Please,” he scoffs. “Take some accountability for yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Stop pretending like you don’t know how you got here.”
“I don’t.” I grit my teeth and look down at the table. It’s covered in blueprints, lists of names, itineraries. I shuffle through it more earnestly, letting my eyes comb over every detail I can get them on. “You’ll never get inside the Agency. Neither one of us will get anywhere near it, and that’s the last place I want to be anyway.”
