Page 141 of Flint’s Strike

Somewhere between that first coffee and tonight, I’ve fallen in love with him. And that terrifies me.

I force a slow breath. In. Out. Again. And again. The tears stop, damp tracks cooling on my cheeks. Pulling into my parking space, I loosen my grip on the steering wheel and stare at my hands.

Eliot trusted me with the worst day of his life.

I can trust him with the worst day of mine.

He meets me at the bottom of the stairs, takes my hand in his, and brings it to his lips. A sound catches in my throat. His name, cut off by a rush of emotion so strong, it almost knocks me flat.

“Parker? What’s⁠—”

“Inside?” The word scrapes out, thin and pleading. Eliot nods, tightens his grip, and we take the stairs together.

The silence is too much, but I don’t know how to break it. Not when I unlock the door. Not once we’re inside.

He leaves his keys next to mine on the counter. Like they belong there.

Because they do.

I pull out two glasses, then dig in the cabinet over the fridge for the bottle of bourbon I’ve only opened twice since I moved to Austin. Eliot watches me pour. Watches the way my hands shake…enough a splash of the amber liquid hits the counter.

“Parker.”

“I need to do this.”

He follows me to the couch, and sinks down close enough for me to feel his warmth, but not close enough to touch.

The space between us is suddenly unbearable.

“Hold me,” I manage.

In a heartbeat, his arm wraps around my shoulders. I lean into his strength. A single tear slips down my cheek. I take a healthy swig of bourbon, the burn as it goes down giving me something to focus on besides what I’m about to do. Another sip, and I set the glass on the coffee table next to his.

“You’ve never asked…about my hands.”

Eliot shakes his head. “Knew you’d tell me when you were ready.”

I flex my fingers on his thigh, the light catching the bits of shiny skin left behind by the cult’s pyre, then flip my hand over so he can see the scars crisscrossing my palm.

“How much of Grace’s story do you know?”

“I follow the news.” His thumb strokes back and forth over my shoulder. The rhythm’s reassuring. I rest my palm over his heart to track the steady beat. “Saw some of her interview with Emi a few months ago.”

“The second time she was taken, right after her surgery, they took me too.”

He stills, tightening his hold. “I…didn’t know.”

“No one does. We kept it quiet. Because of what they did. How they did it.”

Eliot reaches for his glass and downs half of it in a single swallow.

“The leader…he wasn’t one of those charismatic charmer types. He kept his people in line by isolating them, intimidating them, and…if that didn’t work…he figured out a way to break them.”

I take a deep breath, surprised when I don’t smell the smoke or the sickly sweet stench of oleander blooms. There’s just Eliot. Cloves and vanilla with a bit of hickory from the barbecue.

“He had this shed. Wasn’t much bigger than a closet. Thick walls covered in layers of heavy white fabric. Lights that never turned off. He called it the Box.” A single shudder runs down my spine. I ground myself with Eliot’s heartbeat. “I was mad as hell when his men dragged us out of that helicopter. Ready to fight every damn one of them for as long as it took. But Prophet—that’s what he made everyone call him—knew I wouldn’t go down easy.”

The walls of my apartment start to blur as the memories try to drag me back to the compound. I focus on the way Eliot’s thumb moves in a slow, steady arc across my skin to keep me where I know I’m safe.