“I don’t need you to decide when I should rest.” Maeve dropped into the chair beside mine, her anger radiating with nearly physical heat. When she reached for the laptop, I moved it away—a reflex as automatic as breathing.
“Your body is still processing unknown chemical compounds,” I said, meeting her glare. “That’s not emotional—it’s tactical.”
“Tactical?” Her eyebrows arched dangerously. “Is that what you call making unilateral decisions now?”
“I call it efficiency.” I gestured to the screen, voice cooler than I actually felt—something in me stirring in response to the flash in her eyes. “You were compromised. I was functional.”
“Compromised?” Maeve’s laugh lacked any humor, sharp enough to draw blood. “I was sleeping, not in a coma. There’s a difference between protection and control.”
“I wasn’t controlling.”
“Then what do you call this?” She sliced her hand through the air between us, leaning close enough that I could see the individual flecks of gold in her irises.
“Risk management.” The words tasted artificial in my mouth, programming rather than truth. “You wanted to find your brother. I’m trying to help.”
“By excluding me from the process?”
“By letting you recover.”
“Bullshit.” She surged to her feet, stepping deliberately into my space until the heat from her body registered on my skin. I couldn’tfullyunderstand where this sudden wave of anger had come from, but I suspected itcouldhave something to do with the compound in her body. Everyone reacts differently, so she may have become more irritable because of it.
With that in mind, I also knew there was no point in bickering with her.
“You don’t get to decide what I can and cannot do,” she said finally, jabbing a finger in my direction.
I rose to meet her, our bodies separated by inches of charged air. The proximity changed something in myblood—her anger and fierce determination only sharpening the effect. Something primitive recognized her challenge and wanted to answer it, to back her against the nearest wall until her anger burned into something else entirely.
“Someone has to,” I said, my voice dropping lower. “Your mind is barely your own now that you’re recovering, Maeve.”
“Not you.”
“Who then?”
“Me.” She jabbed a finger hard against my sternum, again, and the brief contact sent a current through my system that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with hunger. “I decide my limits. Not Brock. Not you. Me.”
The air between us felt electrified, every breath drawing her scent deeper into my lungs. Her anger carried its own scent—cinnamon and adrenaline, a combination that hit my bloodstream like a drug.
“You still have tremors,” I said, voice softening despite myself.
“I still have agency.” Her eyes challenged mine, pupils dilated with anger and something darker. “Your concern doesn’t override my choice.”
“Your safety...”
“Isn’t your sole responsibility. I survived before you.”
“Barely.”
“But I did.” She held her ground with a fierceness that made something in my chest tighten. “I’m not some asset to be managed. I’m your partner.”
Partner. The word hooked into something deep in my chest. Not an asset. Not collateral. Not the target. Partner. Equal.
She read the shift in my expression, her own softening fractionally.
“We decode these files together.”
Before I could answer, she erased the space between us and pressed her mouth against mine—hard and deliberate, a demand rather than a request. My hands found her waist by instinct, pulling her against me until her body aligned perfectly with mine. The anger between us ignited, transforming to heat that burned through my veins as her mouth demanded a response.
I felt her heartbeat quicken, matching the sudden acceleration of my own. My fingers dug into her hips, wanting to lift her, carry her back to bed, finish this argument in a way that would leave us both breathless and spent.
