Chapter 11 · The Hold Doesn't Open

Dean's forearm slams across my collarbone and pins me to the console edge before I can get a word out.

"Down," he says. "Now."

"Get off me." I twist, and the amber light over the airlock flickers again, stuck between open and shut, like it can't decide which one of us it wants to kill first.

"They said take you alive." His mouth is an inch from my ear. His breath is scorching, way too hot for a guy who's supposed to be running dry on suppressants same as me. "Alive means they can still hurt you plenty. I'm not letting them near you."

"I don't need you to let me do anything."

I get a hand between us and shove. He doesn't move an inch — six-two of cop-issue muscle set like a doorframe — but I get enough leverage to hook my ankle behind his knee and drag him off balance. We both go down against the console, hardware digging into my spine, his hip slamming into mine, bone on bone, and for one second the whole bunker tilts sideways with us.

"Ward—"

"Don't.