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And he grew up to become the keenest blade. The knowledge of what her brother is tinges Kristin’s thoughts with melancholy. A few short months after this pastoral scene, Simon will lead Marlowe to a small clearing at the edge of the woods outside town and open up his innards to the air.…
But his social intelligence is above standard, and Kristin is intrigued by his personal development. She wonders if he’s aware that his empathy—and his attractiveness—may be a liability in the bureau.
You have to examine if you’re knitting back together or if you’re simply growing defensive armor over the wound.”
Once part of an inseparable unit with her brother, Kristin is now a girl who’s been alone for too long. And in Emma’s experience, the Gutmunsson twins react poorly to isolation.
“Why? Because you’re a guy, and you can convince him in a manly way?” Her tone has tipped over from sharp to caustic.
Travis sips his terrible coffee. He’s seen her like this before, and he admires it: her focus, that bulldoggish way she has. That first sight of her yesterday was a shock because she’s so unchanged. Only the little silver hoops in her ears are new. His eyes keep snagging on them, falling away.
Ugh...I swear if these two don't kiss in this book I'll be so pissed!!
They have to run for the plane. Travis offers Emma the aisle seat so she won’t be squashed in the middle, and it’s one of a series of small courtesies they’ve accorded each other since the argument. Each gesture adds a layer, hardens into a kind of impermeable chitin under which their true feelings roil.
“People only listen when women expose their pain, I suppose. Why do you think it’s like that?”
For Emma, this case isn’t just about the victims. It’s a very personal threat, a constant reminder of what she endured with Huxton. She’s scared, and far from home, and trying mightily to hold it all together. There are a hundred different ways she is emotionally heightened right now.
He does a slow count to thirty, and when the cabin gently tilts as the plane banks, Emma’s head settles onto his shoulder. Her breathing is deep and even, but she makes little twitches that he can feel through his suit jacket. Travis finds his own breathing coming in low and quiet. He doesn’t want to wake her. He trains his gaze resolutely forward for as long as he can, before an undefined urge gets the better of him, and he looks down. This is the third time Travis has seen Emma in repose. Her skin is very pale, and her cheek looks soft. The main thing he notices is that Emma doesn’t sleep
...more
They nod at each other. Emma walks off to the cafeteria. Kristin finds the way the two of them circle around each other quite fascinating. Something is happening there—she can feel the energy of it, like a heat shimmer in the air—and it’s interesting to see the way they’re handling it.
The weather is of the not-quite-nice variety: It should be warm, but a layer of cloud creates a flat dispersal of sunlight that eschews warmth.
Goodness! So much in this one sentence!! Love it!
The room is developing a library quiet: just the hum of the heating, the sound of pages turning and paper flicking. He can hear Emma’s soft breathing. He opens his folder, tries to ignore Emma and focus on the work.
But Travis is too inexperienced to have effective boundaries, and he cannot be clinical in Emma’s presence. Here is a photograph of a soiled sheet; here, a clump of hair. Here are the cages the girls were kept in. Except one of those girls is sitting at the desk opposite him, and hour after hour, the awareness rasps against his mind. How in god’s name did she survive?
Travis’s models of courage include his father stepping forward to bargain himself in a hostage situation, his mother gathering them all to hold together and pray. But Emma’s courage was born from a different place: a place of terrified desperation, like a primal scream.
He watched them leave for Washington National this morning, standing at the doorway of the FBI motor pool garage, one hand leaning on the bricks. The masculine angles of his posture and the lines of his suit were all sharpened in the morning light. Emma reminds herself to stay focused—she should be thinking about the victims, not about how Bell looks good in a suit.
“I know a way,” Emma says softly. “I think we’re gonna need field agents in the club, maybe some—” Bell turns to look at Emma. “Sorry?”
“She’s right.” Kristin slaps a hand over her mouth before more words come out. She looks between Bell and Carter, drops her hand away. “I’m sorry, but she’s absolutely right.”
“PLEASE STOP!” Once she’s got their attention, Kristin takes a breath and quiets. Her pale, long-fingered hands flutter in front of her body. “Please. You’re both scared. That’s quite understandable. But you need to just… stop shouting.”
“Travis…” she whispers. “What do you need?” he whispers back. “I’m dizzy.” She’s trembling, and her eyes are very wide and dry. “It’s okay. Emma, it’s all right. Hold on to me.” Her mouth works for a moment before she finally gets it out. “Can you hug me?” “Jesus, of course I can hug you, come here.”
Travis shifts his hands again, draws her close. And it’s… perfect. It’s what they both need, he realizes. He doesn’t know why they weren’t doing this sooner. All this time he’s wasted, when he could have been hugging Emma.
“That’s not—” Travis reins himself firmly so he can make this clear. “Emma’s driven to do this stuff. She’d tell you to shoot her to the moon, if she thought it’d help catch this guy.”
Carter nods slowly. “She and Miss Gutmunsson are both highly motivated, especially in this case.” “Of course they are.” Travis rubs a hand over his mouth. “But you can’t take advantage of that. You can’t treat the girls like agents. They’re not agents. And they both have complicated history. They deserve respect.”
She reminds herself that vulnerability itself is not a weakness, that it’s possible to be vulnerable without regret. That she also asked for help last night. She asked for help, and Travis hugged her, and it was good. It was really good.
Suddenly it’s like she can see him, really see him: his defined cheekbones, athletic strength from physical training, the specific way he’s been honed. She can see him at twenty-five, in sharper suits, his social intelligence channeled into administrative politics, being a better agent than every other man in the bureau because with his dual heritage, he has to be. She can see him at thirty-five, with extra scars, and reading glasses from squinting at all those reports, his expressions confined and FBI-neutral.
She was the one who dealt with Emma’s collapse in the side office: finding a blanket, turning off the lights, speaking in soft, quiet tones—basic things that Kristin wishes someone had done for her when she was upset, on the day of Simon’s arrest.
Kristin is such an angel in this one! Strange seeing as her twin is absolutely diabolical and razor sharp. She is sharply honed but light as a breeze where Simon is like a sharp sliver of obsidian.
“Seeing her disconnect like that, back at headquarters, it scared the shit out of me. I’m so used to Emma being together.” “She’s not a robot,” Kristin points out. The Chanel colors are like jewels this season. “I know that,” he says. “Does she need to be strong for you to feel comfortable?”
“What kind of choice is that anyway? The bureau or my friend?” Travis’s cheeks are flushed, but at least he’s showing some higher brain function. In return, Kristin tries to be as honest as she can. “I had to choose like that once. I stabbed Simon in the neck so he could be arrested. I chose the law over my brother. I don’t know anymore, if I would make that choice again.”
Her uppermost feeling is anger, then tearing grief for Linda Kittiko. She thinks about Simon telling her she has to learn to wield her power.
Why, Travis thinks, why why why would anyone find any pleasure in seeing women hurt, when it’s a billion times more pleasurable to see them happy? He doesn’t have the answer to that question.
Travis looks at her long enough that she worries he’s not paying attention to the road. “I want to be someone who listens.”
“You can come, if you want. My uncle has a big house. Lots of room. Lots of horses. They lean over the fence and whicker at you. It’s warm. You can go swimming in the river.” Her breathing is ragged and she needs to calm it. “I’d like that.”
“I came here with you to show you,” Travis blurts suddenly. “I want you to see that you can trust me. That I’m on your side. That I choose you. Emma, I would choose you over an FBI order every time.”
“I know. I’ve always known. But don’t talk to me about that now. I’m having a hard enough time getting these bullets in.”
“Come ’ere.” Travis transfers the Colt to his left hand, gives her a side-on hug. “Breathe. It’s all right.” “It’s all right,” she repeats, muffled against his shirt. She breathes deeply a couple times, inhaling his scent. “You okay?” “Travis—” Before he moves away, Emma does something she’s been thinking about for a long time. She leans into him. Kisses his neck, where his skin smells hot and good. When she steps back, everything feels better. “Now I’m okay.”
OMG OMG OMG
Simon tugs her hair aside, rests the razor on the artery throbbing under the white skin of her neck. “Don’t speak,” he whispers in her ear. The deep sibilance of his voice, his lips at her earlobe, make her shiver. “Just dance with me, and let me lead.” And so the stage is set, the dance begun.
“Hey, I’ve got a weapon,” Emma says, grin weak. “And really shitty aim.” “Don’t shoot me, shoot the bad guy.” Travis gives her his jacket, his eyes very clear under the moon. “And we’re talking about that kiss when I get back.”
YES YOU BETTER!!!
“Thank you so much,” Kristin says. “You’re a darling.” Her smile is big, and bright, and not of this world at all.
Travis Javier Bell—son of a dead father, law enforcement by birth, brave by nature—takes a deep breath, lifts his cardboard shield, and focuses on his target. Rounds his shoulders. Holds his energy, lets it build… Releases.
Travis knows that the only way to do this is to be thorough. He kneels up over Kirke, straddling his body, pushing the cardboard aside. He rolls the guy to face him and starts punching. He punches once, twice, three times, Kirke’s glasses falling away, blood on his mouth. Travis keeps hitting, even though his head feels ready to burst apart
Something else he has never seen before: Emma, open. Tears leaking down her cheeks as she clasps his hand and bends closer, presses her forehead gently to his. And my god, what he feels for this girl. His torn heart leaps inside his broken chest, and it should be painful, but somehow it isn’t. He releases her fingers so he can cup her cheek, swipe her tears with his thumb—her skin is soft as she leans into his hand. “Travis,” she whispers, and this is another revelation.
