“Let’s get one thing straight, Blythe,” I cut in, my voice even, controlled. The last thing I want is to scare her, but I need her to understand I’m not playing. “I hate liars. This is the part where you tell me who you are, what you’re running from, and in exchange I promise I’ll protect you.” I pause so that settles in before I add, “You lie to me, and I’ll hand you over to whoever is after you on a silver platter. Do we have an understanding?”

Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her hoodie. A flicker of something crosses her face—fear, anger, maybe both—but she tamps it down so fast I almost miss it.

“As I was saying before you blatantly interrupted me,” she says, her voice clipped, “my name is Blythe⁠—”

Oh, this woman really isn’t getting it, is she? “I’m going to give you one more chance.” I interrupt her again, then reach for the glass, handling it carefully with the dish towel as I lift it from the table. Her fingerprints are there, clear as day. I let the implication settle between us before I lean back, keeping my expression unreadable.

“You tell me who you are and who you’re running from. If you do, I won’t send these fingerprints to my people. They’ll figure it out in a matter of hours, and then . . .” I let my voice trail off, watching as the color drains from her face.

She sucks in a sharp breath. Then another. Her chest starts rising and falling too fast, panic setting in before she can stop it. Her hands clutch at the fabric of her hoodie like she’s trying to ground herself, but it’s not working.

Shit. Too far, Timberbridge, you took this too fucking far.

I push the glass aside and kneel in front of her, lowering my voice. “Blythe, breathe.”

She shakes her head, her breaths coming faster, shorter. Her lips part like she’s trying to get air, but nothing’s working.

Damn it. I went too far. This is exactly why people like me aren’t allowed to interrogate anyone. I push too hard, too fast.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, keeping my tone calm even though regret is already twisting through my gut. “And I’m not handing you over to anyone. But you have to talk to me. Tell me what’s happening so I can help.”

Her eyes are wide, raw. She’s at her breaking point.

“I can’t,” she chokes out. “He’ll pay you so much that you’ll give me up. It’s better if I just leave. When he finds me, he’s going to kill me.”

Okay, it’s a ‘he’ that we’re running from. Probably someone who’s been keeping her captive and has been abusing her. That explains a lot about her behavior.