There was no FBI.
There was no hope.
In them, Ethan got a snapshot of who he would become now that he’d turned in his badge, and it was terrifying.
What did he see?
Well, the inevitable.
In them, he became just like Wyler—nothing more than a drunk who was spreading his sperm around willy-nilly without a care in the world.
A man who was destroying lives with his carelessness.
A man who was destined to die alone.
What made it even worse was that he looked like his father in those nightmares. He was an older Native living in destitution because he failed to be anything.
Anyone.
The prophecy of his genetics was coming true, and Ethan couldn’t fight it anymore. He’d tried, and despite how hard he’d worked on getting out of there, it didn’t end well.
He.
Was.
Back.
There was no doubt in his mind that he was, and forever would be, the half-breed Blackhawk.
Too white for this world.
Too Native for the other.
Even in his dreams, he was assaulted with those voices, and he was made to feel ridiculous for even trying to escape the life that he’d been given.
In the end, he was being shown that trying to dig out of the cesspool, clawing his way out, had been a waste of time.
It all came crumbling down, breaking him in ways he’d hoped to avoid.
With the truth out, and him failing out of the FBI, and having to return here jobless and homeless, there seemed to be no hope.
For Christ’s sake, he was sleeping on his brother’s couch.
Great.
How the mighty had fallen and fallen hard.
Pulling out his phone, Ethan knew he needed to face the inevitable. So, he turned it on and saw fifty-seven missed calls waiting for him.
Yep.
That was why he’d turned it off.
Forty of them were from Gene.
Ten were from Greyson.
Oh, and seven were from Alice and John.
