Page 62 of Collateral Damage
Ava
Silas sets me down on the cushions as if I’m made of glass, his movements heavy and precise. The moment his hands leave my shoulders, the sudden void feels like a splash of glacial water, a stark contrast to the fever still humming beneath my skin.
He retreats, the floorboards groaning under his weight as he puts distance between us—not just physical, but emotional. He keeps his back to me, stance defensive, hands locked at his sides.
"I need to keep you safe," he says, his voice a rasp, like stone dragged over gravel. "That means keeping my head clear."
Heat surges into my cheeks. I can’t look at him; I stare at the flicker of the fire, at my own hands, anywhere but at the man who just pulled the foundation out from under me.
He thinks it was an error. To him, my kiss was nothing more than a lapse in discipline, a failure to maintain the perimeter of his restraint. And maybe, in the cold light of his world, he’s right. Maybe I was just spiraling—terrified, desperate for an anchor, grabbing him because the world felt like it was ending.
But my skin still burns where he touched me, a phantom fire that mocks his distance. It didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like coming back to life.
"Right," I manage, my voice thin against the howl of the gale. "Of course."
The silence in the cabin thickens with the things he refuses to say. He moves to the kitchen area, footsteps deliberate, stripped of the frantic energy from moments ago. I sit rigid on the couch, hands clenched in my lap, trying to ignore the way my lips still throb and my heart still pounds against my ribs.
"I shot an elk," he says finally, his gaze darting across the room, refusing to settle.
"Why?"
"Visibility was compromised," he says, his tone shifting into a flat monotone. "Couldn't confirm the target. Had to neutralize the threat."
The clinical language cuts through me. Is this how he survives? By turning his world into reports, turning human emotion into data. He’s filed away what happened in the doorway, labeled it non-essential, and locked it in a drawer.
"I'll reheat the leftovers," he continues, his voice drained of color. "We need to eat and ration the fuel."
He’s treating me like a subordinate, not the woman he just pulled into a collision that cracked something open inside me. His movements are too controlled as he measures the oats; his shoulders locked in a rigid frame.
“Silas, we should talk about what happened. We’re both adults?—"
"Storm's not letting up," he says, ignoring me completely, adjusting the flame on the stove with an intensity that borders on manic. "I'll do another perimeter check after we eat. Make sure there are no other... compromised sight lines."
Every word is a brick in the wall he’s building between us. It’s not just distance; it’s erasure. The formal, hollow cadence of his voice hurts more than a rebuke—it’s the sound of him retreating into the only version of himself he thinks he’s allowed to be.
One thing is clear. That kiss, however spectacular I thought it was, isn’t something that Silas Hightower wants to repeat.
Silas
I dish out the pasta Ava made last night, steam curling into the stale cabin air, and carry her bowl to the couch. She pulls back, gaze fixed on the bowl, voice a fragile whisper I know I’m responsible for. "Thank you."
I retreat to the kitchen and eat standing up, leaning against the counter. Sitting next to her would be a tactical error I’m not equipped to survive.
I force a spoonful of the pasta down my throat, but it tastes like chalk. My hands may be rock steady now, but the memory of how they betrayed me—how they shook when I finally let her go—burns beneath my skin.
Lord, forgive me. Help me honor the promise I made to You. Keep my desires under Your authority.
The satphone's sudden trill cuts through the tension, vibrating the wooden table. Ava flinches, her eyes snapping to mine. For a heartbeat, the world stops; the air between us pulsates.
I force myself to move. I snatch the receiver, thumb hitting the button before the second ring finishes. "What do you have?"
Zack’s Texas drawl is steady, a sharp contrast to the riot in my chest. "We have news from the local PD."
I pivot away from Ava, shielding my expression, jaw tight. "Go ahead."
"A neighbor of Ava’s called them early this morning. They saw someone lurkin’ around her property. Male, matches the physical profile for Reagan. They arrested him a block away."
My grip tightens on the receiver until the plastic creaks. "Did they ID him?"
