"Oh my god! You are!" He pressed against the door, trying to create more distance in the confined space. "The symptoms I thought indicated attachment disorder and possible PTSD... those weren't from childhood trauma, were they? They were from—" He cut himself off, mind racing behind those perceptive eyes. "This isn't a delusion. This is real."
"Calm your tits, doc," I replied, rolling my eyes. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be cooling on a slab, not admiring my driving skills."
"That's not as reassuring as you think," he said, voice pitched somewhere between hysteria and academic lecture. "Where are we going? The lair of a different assassin who hopefully also doesn't want to kill me? Or perhaps a nice underground bunker where you keep all your not-quite-murdered therapists?"
I caught his eyes lingering on my forearms as I shifted gears, his gaze darting away when I noticed. Interesting. Dr. Professional was still in there somewhere, appreciating the view despite his predicament.
"Somewhere safe," I replied with a snort. "A place to regroup, figure out next steps. And get you clothes, though that's lower on my priority list."
"And then what? I can't just disappear. I have patients, responsibilities."
"Then we find whoever put the hit out and convince them to retract it," I said casually, as if suggesting coffee. "I'm very persuasive. You might have noticed."
"Just like that?"
"Didn't say it'd be easy. But I'm good at what I do." I glanced sideways, enjoying how flustered he looked. "Very good, in fact. In all kinds of situations."
Awkward silence fell. Now that the immediate danger had passed, the adrenaline had worn off and my face had erupted into a symphony of pain. Broken cartilage grated inside my nose with each breath, and warm blood trickled from my reopened cheekbone. The adrenaline crash hit like a sledgehammer, muscles screaming from fighting Hector and the high-speed escape. But I swallowed the pain down, forced it into a box. I couldn't show weakness, not when I needed us both alive.
For the first time since I'd killed Hector, the enormity of what I'd done fully crashed into me. Twenty-six years of programming, of conditioning, of service to The Pantheon. All of it obliterated in one moment of defiance. All for a therapist I barely knew. And for what? Because he'd looked at me and seen something worth saving? The magnitude of my betrayal coated my tongue with ash, sick dread pooling in my stomach.
"Your nose is broken," he said abruptly. "It needs to be set."
I shrugged. "It's fine. Had worse."
"It'll heal crooked if not set properly." His voice steadied as he shifted into doctor mode, apparently more comfortable assessing injuries than processing his own kidnapping. "Those cuts need cleaning. You could get an infection."
"Are you always this concerned about people who kidnap you?"
"I haven't been kidnapped enough to establish a pattern." A flash of that dry wit from our therapy session emerged, his chin lifting slightly. "Though I will say, as kidnappings go, this one has an unusually attractive kidnapper. Statistically speaking."
For a moment, the world felt almost normal. Just two guys bantering on a drive. Not a killer and his would-be target fleeing other killers.
"Once we're somewhere safe, you can play doctor all you want," I said, waggling my eyebrows suggestively. "But right now, focus on not getting killed."
"Your inappropriate humor is a defense mechanism. Deflection through sexualization. Common in trauma responses." Then he caught himself psychoanalyzing me and looked away. "Sorry. Professional habit."
"Is that what this is? Me deflecting?" I asked, curious despite myself. "Not just me enjoying making you blush?"
"It can be both," he replied automatically. "Most psychological phenomena have multiple functions."
"Is that right?" My voice dropped lower, rougher. "And what psychological phenomena would explain why your pupils dilate when I get closer to you? Or why your breathing changes when I touch you?"
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes darting away. "Fear response. Entirely normal."
"Bullshit." The word came out softer than I intended. "You weren't afraid in your office yesterday. And you're not just afraid now."
His jaw tightened. "I'm half-naked in a car with an armed assassin who broke into my apartment and kidnapped me. What exactly should I be feeling?"
I shrugged and he let out a sigh.
“Do you think they’re still following us?”
I shook my head. "Not anymore. But they'll find us again. These people are persistent. And resourceful."
"Who are 'these people'?"
"Less you know right now, the better. Trust me."
