Page 55 of Make Them Pay

I lean into his hand for a second before I answer. “We both did.”

Dean appears in the doorway of the operations room. He looks between us, something almost like amusement flickering across his tired face, then gets straight to business.

“Serafina wasn’t at the facility,” he says. “She never is. Ross was her on-site guy, and BRAVO has him in custody. But Serafina herself is in the wind.”

“The evidence package is already out,” I tell him. “Her money network is exposed. The freeze orders should start hitting soon. She can’t run forever without funds.”

“She doesn’t need forever,” Dean answers. “She needs forty-eight hours. Enough time to liquidate whatever she’s kept offline, reach a country that won’t extradite, and disappear. A woman with her skills can rebuild from almost nothing if she gets that head start.”

Render’s voice is soft but firm. “Then we don’t give her one.”

Dean studies him for a long moment, then pulls out his phone and makes a short call. When he hangs up he looks at both of us.

“I have a contact in financial crimes who’s been watching Goldenbell for two years without enough to move. The package you two put together just handed her everything she needs. She’s tracing Serafina’s personal accounts—the ones outside the main network. If Serafina tries to touch any of them, we’ll know within minutes.”

He glances at me. “Your partner did impressive work. Mapping the whole financial structure, building the evidence, and deploying it mid-operation. Enley, you did good.”

Render’s expression stays carefully neutral, but I feel the warmth of his attention like a physical thing.

“Get some rest while you can,” Dean says. “When the trace hits, I want everyone who can stand in this room for a briefing.”

He disappears back into the operations center.

Render and I stand in the hallway for a moment longer. The house has settled into that exhausted post-mission hush. People are finally safe. Poe is alive. The evidence is out in the world.

But Serafina is still out there. The thought settles in my chest like a stone.

Render's hand slips to the small of my back, warm and familiar, his thumb brushing the fabric of my jacket in a slow circle that somehow silences the noise in my head. "Come on."

I don't move.

He tilts his head, studying me with that patient look that's becoming dangerously good at unraveling me. "Don't give me that face."

"What face?"

"The one where you're about to tell me you don't need to eat."

"I don't need to..."

His eyebrow lifts.

I sigh. "Fine. Maybe I'm a little hungry."

"A little?"

"I had adrenaline." I cross my arms over my chest.

"You can't survive on adrenaline."

"I've been doing a decent job so far."

He smiles, small and tired, but real. "Lucky for you, I'm not letting you try anymore."

My heart does that annoying little flip it keeps insisting on doing whenever he looks at me like I'm something worth taking care of.

"I can take care of myself," I mumble.

"I know." His voice softens. "That's never been the question." He brushes a stray strand of hair behind my ear before letting his fingers linger against my cheek for the briefest second. "But for the next hour," he says, "I'd really like to take care of you."