Page 97 of Locked and Loaded

Two short raps. Firm. Deliberate. The kind of knock that didn't ask permission, just announced an arrival.

She crossed the room in four strides and yanked the door open.

Dragan stood in the hallway. He'd changed clothes at some point, dark slacks and a gray shirt that fit him like he'd been sewn into it. His hair was still damp from a shower. He looked calm and collected and infuriatingly handsome, and the sight of him standing there like nothing had happened made her want to throw the water carafe at his head. Or beg him to take her to bed.

She didn't. But she thought about it.

"We need to talk," she said, and stepped back to let him in. It wasn't an invitation. It was a requirement.

He walked past her into the room, his eyes scanning the space the way they always did. Checking corners. Noting exits. A faint smile as he took in the empty food tray. The rumpled bed where she'd been sitting. The window with its view of the sea. She watched him process all of it in the space of a heartbeat and then turn to face her, his expression unreadable.

"Talk," he said. Just that one word. Like he was giving her the floor.

It threw her off balance for half a second. She'd expected resistance. Deflection. The careful, measured tone he used when he was managing her. She hadn't expected him to just stand there and wait for her to speak.

She recovered fast.

"I'm going to the gala tonight." She crossed her arms over her chest and planted her feet. "I'm not asking. I'm not negotiating. I'm telling you. Whatever you're planning, whatever angle you're working, I'm in the room. Not in this villa. Not waiting by a phone. In the room."

He didn't answer right away. His eyes held hers, steady and unreadable, and she could feel the anger in her chest ratcheting tighter, preparing for the pushback she knew was coming.

"And before you start," she continued, her voice rising, "before you tell me it's too dangerous, or I'm not ready, or you're trying to protect me, save it. I need to find my sister or find out what happened to her. You telling me is not the same thing.” She pointed to her chest. “I need to be a part of it. I’ve come this far, and there’s no going back for me.” She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes.

"You don't get to decide what I can handle. Not you. Not after last night. I’m tougher than you think. I'm not going to sit in a beautiful villa while my sister is out there somewhere, waiting, hoping, for someone to come get her." She jabbed a finger toward his chest but stopped short of making contact. "So either I'm going to that gala with you, or I'm going alone. Your choice."

She stopped talking. Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking again, the fine tremor she couldn't control no matter how much she tried, and she pressed her fingertips deep into her biceps to hide it.

Dragan looked at her for a long moment. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, and she braced herself for the argument. The logical, reasoned, infuriating explanation of why she couldn't go, why it was too dangerous, why he was only trying to keep her safe.

"All right," he said.

The words didn't register at first. She'd already started formulating her response to his refusal, the next volley in an argument she'd been having in her head for an hour. Her mouth was open, the words lined up and ready to fire, and then her brain caught up with her ears.

"What?"

"I said all right." His expression hadn't changed. He might have been discussing the weather. "You're coming to the gala."

She stared at him. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Fiery anger had nowhere to go. It had been building for hours, a wave gathering force and speed, and she'd been ready to let it crash over him, to drown him in it, to make him understand exactly what it cost her to be treated like something fragile. And he'd just stepped aside. He'd let the wave pass through empty air, and now it was dissipating into nothing, and she was standing there with her heart racing and her hands shaking and no target for any of it.

"Oh," she said.

The word came out small. Smaller than she'd intended. She felt suddenly ungainly, her arms still crossed, her feet still planted, her body still braced for a fight that wasn't coming. She uncrossed her arms. Then crossed them again. Then dropped them to her sides.

"I was ready to fight you on this," she said, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Quieter. Less certain.

"I know."

"You're not going to fight me?"

"No."

She didn't know what to do with that. She'd spent an hour building her case, sharpening her arguments, preparing for battle. And he'd given her nothing to push against. Just agreement. Just calm, steady, infuriating agreement.

"Don't you want to lecture me about keeping me safe?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, and she heard the note in her voice that she hadn't meant to let through. Something vulnerable. Something that sounded almost like disappointment.