“Stillwell’s directions weren’t exactly clear. Axel is scouting out a few potential places to find the location of the meet if it’s still taking place.”
“Why is he alone? Those people are dangerous!”
“Have you met Axel?” He snorts to himself. “I love the guy, but I wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night. He’ll be fine.”
With all the chocolate broken up, I scoop up the piles between my two hands to deposit them in the saucepan. Warner’s bare arm brushes mine, emanating heat and patchouli-scented musk.
The faint touch seems to startle him. He stares into the depths of the saucepan, his hand tightening around the spoon. Unsure if I’ve made him uncomfortable, I move back.
“Once we’ve narrowed down the location, we’ll wait for the next meeting to see who turns up.”
“Those operatives must be funded by Gael and others like him,” I point out.
“Most likely. Yes.”
“What if they could lead us back to Gael?”
“They’re just foot soldiers kidnapping women to sell onwards. Hardly a direct route to the head of the cartel. But it is a start.”
Huffing, I hop up onto the counter while he locates two mugs. I know the wheels of justice move slowly, but a part of me wants to march down to that warehouse and slit the throats of every last person in it.
Something tells me Axel would agree.
Perhaps he’d even help.
Setting two large mugs next to the stove, Warner dips into a drawer to search for something. He straightens with a pack of pink marshmallows clasped in his hand.
“I haven’t made this in ages.”
“Why do you even have the supplies?” I snicker at him.
“You’re not the only one with a sweet tooth.”
“I forgot you’re almost as bad as me.”
“Yeah.” He laughs under his breath. “Axel too.”
“You and Axel make hot chocolate together? Aw. How romantic.”
“Zip it, Em.”
Catching the bag that sails through the air towards me, I tear into it to shove marshmallows into my mouth. His gaze is locked on the bag. Eyes rolling, I toss him a fluffy marshmallow.
Warner ducks to capture it between his lips. “Thanks.”
“You’re such a big kid.”
Mumbling around his mouthful, he returns to stirring the hot chocolate. I cross my bare legs at the ankles, looking around their shadow-filled apartment.
The idea that I’m now living here and will soon be training as a member of their team is crazy. I know Tom doesn’t approve, but somehow, this feels right. Like I was meant to be here.
“When can we start training?” I look back at him.
Turning off the stove, Warner pours our two drinks. “You’ve got medical and psychological assessments in a few days. Once you’re clear, we’ll begin.”
“I’m not sitting in some dumb therapy office and pouring my soul out. Forget it.”
“Talking will help.” He slides a mug over to me. “Keeping all that pain locked up isn’t going to do you any favours, Em. Trauma has a way of surfacing.”
