Interrogation room? What is he—a police detective?

I moisten my lips and glance around, searching for Rhiannon. There’s no sign of her, and I turn back to Marcus.

He cocks his head, considering me. Waiting. And I know it’s not a suggestion.

I look at Tabatha, but there’s no help there. The expression on her face tells me she thinks this is a great idea. She would probably sit next to him and add her own questions to the inquiry.

Suddenly I feel very alone.

Marcus’s gaze lifts right and settles over my shoulder.

“That’s enough time on your feet for one day, Davy. Let’s get you back to the infirmary.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear the low rumble of Caden’s voice behind me. I blame my injuries. I thought my situational awareness—at least ever since finding out I have HTS—was better than that. Seems I still have things to work on.

I’m not sure if it’s Caden’s voice or his hand settling on my arm, but I shiver.

“Hey, Caden.” Tabatha straightens, gifting him with a bright smile. He nods hello.

“We were going to put a few questions to her, Anderson.” Marcus’s eyes take on a new gleam as he directs his attention to Caden. “We haven’t had an opportunity to do that yet given her unorthodox arrival. I’m sure you can see the wisdom in that. Your old man, the Colonel, was the one to set up such protocols, after all.” Ruben nods beside him.

Caden grins then, his teeth a flash of white against his tan face. He chuckles softly, and I think I catch him murmur the word “unorthodox.”

Marcus must have heard him, too—or he just doesn’t care for Caden’s amusement. He snaps, “That’s right. We have protocol in place. Protocol established by your father when he first started this cell. Protocol we’re trusted to maintain while Dumont is gone. Protocol that you broke when you failed to blindfold her.” He stabs a finger directly in Caden’s chest, and just like that all levity leaves Caden’s face.

The air thickens, and I’m convinced one of them—or both—is about to launch at the other one. By now I know carriers. Whatever else they are, they’re aggressive.

“I don’t need you to lecture me about my father.”

“I think I knew the man better than you.” Ruben makes a grumbling sound of assent. Marcus nods and claps him on the shoulder as he continues, “I served under him for five years and Ruben here served under him for three . . . while you were some snot-nosed kid hanging out on a skateboard back home with your mommy. The General only made you a captain when you came here out of some screwed-up sense of loyalty to your dad.”

“Shut up.” Caden’s jaw tenses, and I know he wants to say more than that.

Marcus ignores him. “Following protocol keeps people alive. Your old man never got around to teaching you that lesson, I guess. For all we know she’s an Agency spy.”

“I don’t work for the Agency,” I can’t stop myself from protesting. I grab at my throat, stretching my neck for all eyes although it’s not necessary. My imprint is clear as day. “Does this mean nothing?”

“For all we know they put that on you so you could fit in better.” This from Ruben. I glare at him, standing so confidently beside Marcus.

“Really?” I feel my eyes go wide. “Are there many volunteers out there who would take an assignment where they have to get themselves imprinted?”

No one would want that stigma. I know that much . . . have lived through the ostracism firsthand. Family. Friends. The life that you thought yours all of a sudden vanishing. As fluid as water slipping through your fingers.

“Who said it was your choice?” Marcus shrugs. “Or maybe the Agency promised to remove your imprint after you completed your job.”

I pull back, feeling myself shrink a little inside, because it’s close to what Mount Haven dangled before me—that if I successfully completed their training, I could have a future without this imprint around my neck. But that ship sailed the day I escaped.

I’m not a spy.

Caden’s fingers adjust on my arm, just a light flexing. I could easily shrug him off, but that would leave me facing others who look ready to drag me away into some interrogation room. I envision it like in one of those old police dramas—with them beating me with a rubber hose to get whatever answers they want out of me.

“Back. Off.” Caden punctuates each word with a meaningful pause.

“Caden,” Tabatha says, and there’s a cajoling tone, a lilt to her voice that irks me, driving home the fact that while Caden and Marcus might not get along, Caden and Tabatha are a whole other story. She plays with the end of her braid again, curling the dark strands around her fingers with an elegance that belies her hard-as-nails-camo-wearing persona.

He shakes his head once at her. “We’re not doing this now, Tab.”

I glance at the hard set to his jaw. Not now. But later? This time I tug my arm free. The action liberates me, but I sway a little on my feet.

“See? She can hardly stand.” Caden wraps an arm around my waist.

Tabatha’s eyes narrow on that arm and her gaze feels heavy on me, heavier than Caden’s arm. Like a shackle. Caden walks us past them, still holding me like I might drop. Marcus stands aside at the last moment, letting us pass. My hip brushes with Caden’s and I try to lean away, but he yanks me back, tucking me to his side.

I glare at his profile. “I can walk.”