Page 98 of Locked and Loaded

Recognition or acknowledgment flickered in his eyes. There and gone, too fast for her to name. "I want you safe," he said. "But you were right. Back at the camp. I can't keep you in the dark and expect you to trust me. I can't ask you to be my partner and then make all the decisions alone."

"So I'm your partner now?"

"You've made that fairly clear."

She didn't know if that was a yes. She didn't know what it was. She was still reeling from the absence of resistance, the strange hollow feeling in her chest where the anger had been a moment ago. She'd been so ready to fight him. She'd wanted to fight him. The anger had been fuel, something to burn, something to keep her warm and moving and focused. Without it, all she had left was the fear.

And there it was. The fear. Lurking underneath the anger the whole time, patient and cold, ready to fill the space as soon as the heat receded.

The gala was a front for what some creeps might consider the real party. It was a room full of people who trafficked in human beings. People who had taken her sister. People who wouldn't hesitate to take her too if they knew who she was and why she was there.

She swallowed hard and shoved the fear down where she couldn't feel it.

"There's something else," Dragan said. "Alex Buchanan is coming to help you get ready."

"Alex Buchanan?" The name was vaguely familiar. She searched her memory and found it. "Your boss Mitch's wife?"

"Yes. She'll be here in an hour."

"I don't need help getting ready. I need clothes." She gestured at herself, the same jeans and shirt she'd been wearing since the desert. "Unless you're planning to take me to a gala looking like this."

"Check the closet."

She frowned at him. Then she crossed the room and opened the closet door.

It wasn't empty. Not even close. Dresses hung in neat rows, a dozen of them at least, in colors that ranged from deep emerald to midnight blue to a silver-gray that shimmered when the light hit it. Below them, on a low shelf, were shoes. Heels. Flats. A pair of sandals with delicate straps that looked like they'd cost more than her rent. Beside the shoes, a small velvet box sat open, and inside it was a necklace, simple and elegant, a single stone that caught the light and threw it back in fragments.

She turned to the bathroom and pushed the door open. The counter was covered in bottles and brushes and compacts, a full cosmetics setup arranged with the same meticulous precision as the closet. Perfume. Hair products. A curling iron and a straightening iron and a set of brushes she didn't know the names for.

"Armand had everything delivered," Dragan said from behind her. "He wasn't sure what you'd need, so he sent everything."

She turned around slowly. "You knew I was going to fight you on this."

"I assumed."

"And you had clothes delivered anyway."

"Armand did. You're not the only one who can plan ahead."

She didn't know whether to be furious or impressed. The feeling was somewhere in the middle; a complicated knot of emotions she didn't have time to untangle.

"There's one more thing," he said. "I'm leaving before you. I need to be there early, coordinate with my people. You'll come later with Alex and Mitch."

"You're not going to be there."

"I'll be there. I just won't be with you when you arrive." He paused, and something shifted in his face, a crack in the careful neutrality he'd been maintaining since he walked through the door. His tone softened somewhat. "Be safe, Lennox."

He turned and walked out before she could answer. The door clicked shut behind him, and she was alone again.

She stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by dresses she hadn't chosen and perfume she hadn't asked for and the ghost of an argument she'd already won and lost at the same time. She'd gotten what she wanted. She was going to the gala. And somehow it didn't feel like a victory.

She walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. The sun was starting its slow descent toward the sea, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that made the limestone buildings glow. Somewhere out there, less than a mile away, was an event space full of the kind of people who bought and sold human lives. Somewhere was the path to Chloe, the next link in a chain that had felt hidden for so long.

And Dragan would be there. But not with her.

The disappointment was sharp and unexpected. She'd been so focused on getting into the room that she hadn't thought about what it would feel like to be in that room without him. He'd become a constant, a fixed point in the chaos of the last few days, and the thought of walking into a den of wolves without him at her side made her stomach clench in a way she didn't want to examine too closely.

She straightened up and pushed away from the window. The fear was still there, cold and patient, but she'd been living with it for so long that it felt almost familiar. Almost comfortable. She could carry it and keep moving. She'd been doing it for weeks.