Page 5 of Flint’s Strike

“No.”

“Good. That would’ve required effort,” he says, somehow managing to adopt all the tension of a wet noodle. “I’m pacing myself.”

I turn my head enough to glare at him. “You’re really earning that nickname.”

“Consistently.” His chest puffs out like it’s a point of pride. “A lesser partner would have abandoned you to fight the mail alone.”

“I wasn’t fighting anything.”

“You absolutely were. It was a close match, too.”

The sound that slips free almost passes for a laugh before the headache reminds me not to get ambitious. “Fine. You can stay. But I need a shower.”

He starts to get up, but my glare must be on point, because he drops his ass back to the couch. Standing slowly, bracing myself on the arm of the sofa as the dizziness swells then ebbs, I head down the hall, every joint, muscle, and bone in my body bitching about the effort and how movement sucks.

Slipping into the bathroom, I heave a heavy sigh and lock the door behind me.

The lights are too bright. I wince, turn away from the mirror, and slide to the floor with my back to the vanity. I can’t see anything but the unending nothingness of that fucking box.

Drawing my knees up, I wrap my arms around them. The motion tugs at the stitches in my torn and fire-blistered skin. My chest locks, and I can’t get a deep breath. Pressing both hands to my temples, I try to drown out the sound vibrating through my skull. But the memory’s too loud.

Screaming until my voice gave out. Cursing the cult’s leader, his minions, and Marvin—a Ranger who was supposed to be a friend. Or at least a halfway decent colleague.

I shove my fist against my mouth to choke off the sound threatening to claw its way out of me.

“Parker?” Nate knocks on the door. “You good?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, rocking from side to side.

Totally fine. Or totally not fine.

The words won’t come.

Metal rasps against metal. The knob rattles.

Click.

The door swings open, and I pin my gaze to Nate’s black boots as he steps inside. I can’t look up. If I do, he’ll see how close I am to losing my shit.

He lowers himself to the floor across from me like this is a stakeout and we’ve got nothing better to do.

“Your landlord has good taste in tile.” He’s so matter-of-fact, he might as well be talking about the weather. “I’ve sat on worse. There’s a metal folding chair in APD’s lobby that’s owed me an apology for five years now. This might as well be a spa day.”

I drag my sleeve across my cheek. “You clearly haven’t been to the good spas in town.”

“And you have?” He snorts. “Parker, you wouldn’t last ten minutes at a spa.”

I almost laugh. He’s right. My first, last, and only facial ended in disaster. The aesthetician put some slimy mask over my face, claustrophobia kicked in—hard—and I fell right off the table. Naked.

We sit in silence for a few minutes. Somewhere in another apartment, water runs.

“Go home, Nate,” I say softly. “I’m fine.”

He leans back, forearms on his knees, dark eyes steady on me. “Of course you are. But my fridge is probably a biohazard and I don’t feel like dealing with it tonight. Your couch is safer.”

My throat burns, but the vise trying to crush my chest eases a single notch. Enough I can pull in most of a breath.

It takes another few minutes before I find the strength to push myself up. My voice is rough at the edges. “Go wait for the food delivery. I can manage.”