Page 15 of Make Them Cry
I don’t answer right away. Because I don’t know.
“I’ll tell her when it’s over,” I say finally. “When she’s safe.”
“You sure that’s not just you being a coward?” Render asks, softly.
Maybe.
But for now, she thinks Mask is just some faceless digital ghost who swoops in when things get too dangerous. That’s safer. It keeps her guarded. Keeps her careful.
If she knew it wasme—the guy who steals her coffee and makes dumb puns in meetings—she might let her guard down.
And I can’t risk that. Not when the walls are closing in.
“Flag Mason. Watch all outbound data packets from his terminal. I want full log access. No pings without my say so.”
Arrow sighs. “Copy that.”
“And someone ping Legal,” I add. “Let’s see if we can get his contract reviewed without raising alarms.”
“You’re gonna play it clean?” Knight says.
I smirk. “For now.”
But if he so much as looks at River again?
I’ll show him what it means to cry.
FIVE
RIVER
I show up to work late. And I don’t care. Let them fire me, or send me another mindfulness worksheet.
The espresso machine is making that awful wheezing sound again, like it’s about to cough up a demon. I’m standing in the kitchenette staring at it like I can force it to work with the power of raw desperation.
“I think it’s dying,” I mutter.
Gage appears behind me like he was summoned by sarcasm. “Maybe it just doesn’t respond to passive aggression.”
“It’s your fault. You used it last.”
“I cleaned it.”
“Lying to my face before coffee? Bold move.”
He leans against the counter, way too smug for someone who regularly burns his toast in the communal toaster. “Maybe it’s just tired of being manhandled.”
“Like all of us,” I say flatly.
He grins.Of course he grins.And the sight slays me. “You wound me.”
“If only.”
Gage reaches past me—why does he always smell good?—like sandalwood and danger, with a hint of something warm and clean underneath, like he just stepped out of a hot shower and into my personal space.
His arm brushes mine as he leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of him through my hoodie. My breath hitches. Stupidly.Embarrassingly.
He presses a button on the espresso machine, slow and deliberate, and the machine sputters like it’s dying for attention. Just like me, apparently.
