Let Me In. Donna Kauffman

fast. He might not be able to speak, but there were other ways to gather information.

      First, however, she found herself leaning over him once more. She turned his face toward hers, then lowered her own until her lips were a breath away from his. “But understand one thing, Derek Cole. This time, you will answer to me.”

      Chapter 2

      Derek fought the haze. He was in a fairly significant amount of pain, but that was secondary. That he could compartmentalize. It was just basic mechanics. What worked, what didn’t, and how long it would take to repair. The haze…that was different. He couldn’t divorce himself from it, he couldn’t ignore it, he couldn’t bend it to his will. Which was why drugs were often so much more effective than physical torture.

      Controlling his thoughts was still a slippery endeavor. Staying focused could last several minutes, or mere seconds, before his mind would wander off down some path that could be fact, could be hallucination, or some devilish combination of the two. In the past twelve hours, he’d gotten better at distinguishing which was which, but he still couldn’t control the slide in and out. He didn’t know what they’d pumped into him, or how long the effects would last.

      Worse, he had no idea what he’d told them. Had his years-long, intense training, which included subliminal subterfuge, even under duress and drug induced confessionals, held up? Or did they know everything he knew? Which was admittedly damn little, but more than anyone else knew at the moment.

      He didn’t even know who the hell “they” were.

      “Derek?”

      Her voice. Tate’s voice. He felt his thoughts begin to slip away from him again and fought like hell to keep them in check, under his control. He’d missed that voice. Always so crisp, so businesslike, so succinct. He’d fantasized about that voice, about making it break, making it tremble. No…no, that was the drug talking. He’d never allowed himself to think of his best agent as anything more than just that. Only she wasn’t his anymore. In any capacity. Never would be. More’s the pity. But what other choice did he have? What other choice would someone like him ever have?

      “Derek! Do you hear me?”

      Yes. And he wanted it to stop. It was torture, that voice. So close, and yet so far. He’d watched her. For days now. So close, and yet farther away than ever. Torture, indeed.

      “Don’t slip out on me,” she commanded. “You need to hold on. Wake up. Tell me what you’ve done.”

      Done. What had he done? Bits of the past two days floated in and out of the pain-fogged haze that was his brain. He’d failed, that’s what he’d done.

      He grimaced, trying to separate the pain from the haze. Focus past the haze, latch on to something, anything, that was real and solid, then build on that. But all he heard was Tate’s voice. All he saw was her cabin. With her safely in it. And him, forever on the outside, looking in. Keep her safe. But how? How to do his job, and keep her safe? He had to. He’d given his word. He never made promises. Yet, he’d made one to her.

      And then darkness. And pain. And…limbo. No boundaries, infuriatingly elastic limbo. If this was purgatory, he’d rather just go to hell.

      “Derek.”

      “Right.” His voice…had that croak been his voice? Had he spoken, or just wished he had?

      “Stay with me,” Tate’s voice implored.

      “Want to,” he managed. Hadn’t that been the fantasy he’d never allowed himself to indulge in? Striding up to her door, announcing he was out, and would she please, for the love of God, take him in? Fantasy. Hallucination. He would never do that. Never ask that. He had a job to do. Always a job. Always…something.

      “You can’t just come in here and die on my cabin floor without telling me what the hell you’ve dragged me into.”

      Cabin floor. Tate’s voice. The drug, he was hallucinating again. He’d come inside. She’d let him in. Sanctuary. Hers. Now his.

      Someone gripped his chin, shook his head a little. It had the effect of tossing his thoughts like mental salad with a side of pain, and it took him another moment to sort through the jumble. “Don’t,” he grunted. It was hard enough, fighting this battle.

      “What did they do? Is it just physical? Mental? Internal? I don’t want to call anyone in, but if you need extreme medical care—”

      “No.” It was an automatic response, one that was as much an intrinsic response due to his training, as it was an actual accurate assessment of his current situation.

      “I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m up against.”

      Derek gritted his teeth, and worked hard to open his eyes, to swallow against the gritty sandpaper that was his throat, to find some way to surface long enough to figure out where he was. Who was prodding him. Separate fact from drug-induced fantasy. He’d already gotten himself in this much trouble, no need to extend the streak any further.

      He thought he’d managed to blink his eyes open briefly, but it was just as dark as before. Blind? No. No, he’d seen her face. Felt her touch. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Which meant…“Tate?”

      “Right here,” she said, matter-of-factly. “What did they do to you?”

      She was here. He wasn’t going to make contact unless absolutely necessary. He groaned as she began working on the cords binding his wrists. Pain shot up through his elbows, then screamed when his shoulder moved.

      The pain had a clarifying effect that was costly, but one he hung on to. He was with Tate. She was here. Talking to him. So, he’d made contact. He’d…fuck.

      “I’m going to cut the cords on your wrists, but I don’t want you to move until we figure out if anything is broken.”

      “Not,” he managed. Dislocated, but not broken. “Fine.”

      She laughed. It was a short, harsh sound. And it made him want to smile. Which was proof right there how fucked up he really was.

      “Hardly. But maybe you won’t die. Maybe you’ll live long enough so I can have the pleasure of killing you myself.”

      He closed his eyes and stopped trying to roll his head so he could see her. “Please…do.” Then he could blessedly stop worrying. He hated worrying. It was a completely foreign concept to him. Worry was a luxury he simply did not allow himself. Focused, emotionless clarity. That was how he functioned. It was the only way someone in their profession could function and be successful. And survive.

      No worries. Only the job. And how to get it done. Sometimes you won. Sometimes you lost. Sometimes people died either way. Cost of doing business. It wasn’t something you could lose sleep over.

      But tell that to the sap of a conscience he’d suddenly developed. At least where Tate Winslow was concerned. Or Tara Wingate. Shit.

      He’d apparently blown that all to hell anyway, considering his current location.

      He’d never been good at that sort of thing anyway, having a conscience. It’s what made him good at what he did. Now he had to pray that Tate was still good at what she did. It was the only hope either of them had. For him, to get the job done. For her…to stay alive.

      A long groan escaped him without his consent when the bonds slid free and gravity pulled at his arms as his hands relaxed against the floor. He wanted to move, to blessedly find a different position, one that would allow him at least a shred of control. But he wasn’t truly capable of assessing his injuries and, for Tate’s sake, if not for his own, he needed to at least relay to her what it was he’d dragged her into. Why he’d come.

      “Don’t move.”

      “Don’t worry.”

      He felt her hands at his ankles, and then the pressure there eased as the cords slid away from them, too. He wanted, so badly, to just