“I think we can work with that,” she says, already shifting gears. “Keep feeding me her routine and I’ll get the team in position to reset. We don’t get another shot at this.”
“I know,” I nod, tension threading through my voice. “We’re running out of chances.”
Truth is, I’d rather keep Nell locked down in here until Manticore implodes. But we need the illusion—need her visible, predictable.
We need the story to sell; business as usual.
By the time we’ve wrapped the tactical briefing and everyone’s looped into the plan, my stomach growls like it’s staging a protest. I haven’t had a real meal since this whole ordeal started, and now I’m craving something substantial—anything that doesn’t come in a foil wrapper.
In the last two hours, Nell has apparently discovered every room in the house. Thoroughly. And the cat? The cat has claimed every horizontal surface like some tiny, furry despot.
I hover near the office door, reluctant to step back into the fray.
Mess makes my skin itch. Clutter, animal hair—chaos in general. I like things the way I like them; neat, ordered, predictable.
But there’s a walking whirlwind in my kitchen, and it’s wearing my hoodie and feeding its accomplice chicken scraps off my good plates.
The moment I step into the kitchen, my skin crawls. It’s carnage. I knew where everything lived—each utensil, each spice jar, every mug with a crack I refused to throw away. There was order.
Now?
It looks like someone lobbed a grenade and walked off whistling. Pots stacked like Jenga, crumbs trailing across every surface, a trail of destruction that screams Nell was here.
How she managed to create this level of chaos in under an hour is beyond me.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, casually sipping my orange juice like we’re roommates, not acquaintances. “I didn’t have any jumpers—and it’s freezing in here.”
I arch a brow, gesturing to the countertop now painted in toast crumbs and a streak of juice like modern art.
“I’m more concerned aboutthat,” I mutter, brushing past her to grab a cloth. “I set rules for a reason, Nell. I like my space clean. I like my room to stay mine. It’s not a dressing room or a laundry drop zone or—whatever this is. And my kitchen isn’t a free for all. We need boundaries. And if you can’t stick to them, this arrangement won’t work.”
God. I sound like my father.
She just leans against the counter, entirely unbothered, like she owns the place. Strutting around inmyjumper, rearranging my house one boundary at a time.
I’ve never had a woman settle in this fast. Definitely not one I’ve known for forty-eight hours and who, until recently, had me tied to a chair.
“Gotcha. Boundaries. I’ll try to remember them.”
“Not try,” I mutter, pinning her with a look. “Will remember.”
“Sure,” she chirps, brushing crumbs from my jumper with mock seriousness—though her touch lingers a beat too long where her nipples peak beneath the material, the curve of her mouth betraying just how unserious she is.
She’s not wearing a bra.
Interesting.
And just like that, she changes the subject. Seamless.
“So. What’s the plan? When do we attack?” She straightens, full of misplaced enthusiasm. “I did karate when I was a kid, you know. I’ve got moves.”
Of course she does.
“No moves,” I cut in, deadpan. “I’ll brief you after dinner. I haven’t had a proper meal in almost two days—thanks to someone.”
She grins—clumsily—and pats my chest like we’re old friends. Her greasy fingerprints trail down my shirt, leaving translucent lines in their wake.
“What’re you cooking?” she asks, oblivious.
