Page 91 of Collateral Damage
I can’t breathe. My brain, which has spent years categorizing trauma, risk, and probability into neat, manageable boxes, abruptly refuses to function. The security pass is still in my hand, its plastic edges sharp against my palm—a cold, artificial weight that feels heavier than it should. My fingers have gone numb around it.
Despite the pain he’s in, there’s a deliberate set to his jaw and absolute, terrifying steadiness in his eyes. There isn't a flicker of doubt there. Not a single "maybe."
"You're serious," I say, my voice barely a whisper, thin and reedy in the quiet office.
"Deadly," he says.
My heart is a jagged rhythm. It’s not tachycardia; it’s completely overwhelmed.
"You brought me to Jericho," I say, the weight of the thousand-mile journey finally settling into my bones.
"Yes."
"You gave me a security pass."
"I don’t have an engagement ring," he says. His voice is low, unyielding, but I catch the slight strain in it—the physical cost of kneeling. "This is the next best thing."
I swallow, my throat dry. "You brought me to your father," I say, the list of his actions running through my mind like a chart. I pause, my eyes stinging. "Your entire team. You let me see behind the curtain."
"Yes."
I look down at the pass, focusing on the photo. My own face looks back at me—pale, a little tired, but already framed by the Hightower logo. I’m already belonging to something I haven't even said yes to yet. He didn't just bring me here to show me his world, to let me see the shadows he inhabits. He brought me here because he had already decided the shadows were mine to share.
"Silas." My voice is fragile. "Baltimore is my home. My mother is there. My job?—"
"I know," he says. Simply. No negotiation, no "but."
"Your life is here. This office, this... it's all here."
"Jericho is here,” he says, his gaze locking onto mine with a force that makes it hard to look away. "My life is wherever you are."
I search for the crack in the façade. The "trauma response." "You've been through a crisis," I say, grasping for a logical exit. "Major surgery. Significant blood loss. You're on high-grade pain medication?—"
"I skipped the last dose," he says, his tone brooking no argument.
"You can’t afford to," I snap, the doctor in me flaring up because it's safer than the woman in me.
"Ava."
"I'm serious, Silas. This is exactly the kind of impulsive decision people make when their neurochemistry is?—"
"I have been thinking about this," he says quietly, cutting through the static, "and it has nothing to do with neurochemistry and everything to do with how I feel about you."
My stomach flips. Silas is not an impulsive man. He is a man who counts the cost of every bullet, every mile, and every life.
"How long?" I ask.
He doesn't answer immediately. The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of my own pulse in my ears.
"Long enough," he says, "to know that a Baltimore office makes more sense than asking you to give up everything you've built. I'm not here to take things from you, Ava."
I stare at him, stunned. The air leaves the room. "You're setting up a Baltimore office?"
"I will," he says. “I’ll hire an assistant, work out of it, and fly to Jericho when I'm needed.”
I take a ragged breath, trying to steady the shaking in my hands. "My mother," I say. "She’s... she won't be easy."
"Another reason why you need me with you," he says.
