Page 30 of Collateral Damage
His hand flexes slightly at my waist. His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before snapping back up. Then he steps back, releasing me as if I’ve burned him.
"Sorry," he says, reaching for his watch. "That was?—"
"It’s fine." My voice doesn’t sound like mine. "You were just showing me the move."
"Right," he rasps, his eyes darting toward the wall as if searching for a hidden exit. "The move. Right."
I stand rooted to the floor, my hand still curled into a fist against my own chest where I’d been pressing into his.
My skin feels like it’s vibrating, the phantom pressure of his palm still imprinted on my waist, burning through my clothes.
Every nerve ending in my body’s screaming at the realization that if he hadn’t moved back—if he’d stayed for one second longer—I wouldn’t have been able to pull away at all.
Silas
I drag a hand over my face and force myself to focus on the immediate, practical reality of why I’m here. My heart’s still hammering against my ribs, an unruly, traitorous beat that refuses to synchronize with the calm I need to project.
I grab the sat phone and step toward the window, putting as much distance between us as the small room allows. The air by the glass is cooler, sharper, but it does nothing to soothe the phantom heat of her hand against my chest or the lingering, maddening sensation of her body tucked against mine.
I thumb the contact button, my movements stiff and uncoordinated.
"Hightower Actual to Watchtower," I say, my voice coming out gravel-rough and an octave deeper than intended.
I can’t look at Ava. I need to lock the last five minutes into a mental box, seal the lid, and bury it deep under layers of training and protocol before I turn back around. If I can’t control my own pulse, I have no business being her protection.
"Watchtower," comes back immediately.
"On site and secure," I report. "Weather's deteriorating faster than forecast—heavy snowfall, reduced visibility. No issues. Power, comms, and systems holding."
"Copy. Any concerns?"
"Negative. We're buttoned up and prepared to ride it out."
"Roger. Maintain check-in schedule."
"Wilco."
I end the call and look at Ava. “I’m going to start the truck. I’ll be right back."
"I'll come with you," she says, already setting down her mug.
I start to tell her to stay inside where it's warm and safe, but something in her expression stops me. She's been cooped up, scared, dependent on me for everything. Maybe she needs to move, to do something that feels normal.
"Bundle up," I say. "It's cold out there."
She returns a few minutes later in a heavy coat, boots, and a knit hat pulled low over her ears.
We step outside together. The snow is deeper than I expected—nearly a foot accumulated overnight, still falling in thick, lazy flakes. Our tracks from yesterday are completely buried.
The truck starts on the first try, engine rumbling to life in the quiet. I let it idle, watching the exhaust plume white in the cold air.
"While we're out here," I say, turning to face her. "Have you ever handled a firearm?"
Her eyes widen slightly. "Certainly not."
"Just the basics. In case—" I stop. "In case you need it."
She studies me for a moment, snow collecting on the shoulders of her coat.
