A small, quiet warmth spreads through my chest, chasing away the last lingering chill of the hangover. I reach up, covering his hand with my own, feeling the rough calluses on his knuckles.
"When does the operation start?" I ask.
"Tomorrow evening at sunset," Locke says, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing line along my jawline. "Cobra and the boys are setting up the equipment in the woods early tomorrow morning. All the pieces are already moving."
"And what am I supposed to do tomorrow night, while you're out blocking roads and neutralizing armed escorts?"
Locke pulls back just enough to look down into my eyes, a soft, rare glint of humor breaking through his rugged features.
"You," Locke says firmly, "are going to stay right here, eat a real meal, and let your brain finish recovering
