Page 80 of The Silent Hour

“Noted,” Eric replied without missing a beat.

Rafa turned his glare back on me, but his voice softened under an undertone of brotherly exasperation. “You know I love you.”

“I can feel it,” I grumbled.

“I also love Julia like she’s my sister, so here’s some friendly advice. If you ever force me to pick sides—because your emotional intelligence has apparently turned to mashed potatoes—you won’t like which side I choose.”

I almost laughed, despite the pounding in my temples. Almost. “I know.”

Rafa’s anger thawed just a fraction. “You need to tell her exactly what happened.”

“I will.”

“Not lawyer-exactly. No qualifiers. No ‘technically she kissed me first,’ no ‘I was tired,’ no building a closing argument.”

“I know,” I said, voice quiet.

Eric finally leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Tell her the part you’re least comfortable saying.”

I met his gaze, and saw him shrug as if to say, That’s the important part. I slumped deeper into the chair. “Yeah.”

Silence cratered between us. Then from the far end of the room came a groggy shift of movement. Knox sat up on the couch, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he blinked his confusion at our circle of tension. “What the hell did I miss?”

Rafa pointed a long finger at me. “Ethan’s an idiot.”

Knox yawned, pressing one palm to his forehead. “That’s not new.”

Rafa shrugged. “Different category.”

I closed my eyes, the edges of my vision pulsing. I didn’t go home after that. I’d planned to—just finish another hour, make sure everything on Cortez was locked down, then get back to Julia before the girls woke. Instead, exhaustion tightened its grip. At some point I’d stumbled into my office and lowered myself into my chair.

After that, the only thing I remembered was the dark slide of unconsciousness closing in like a curtain.

A FEATHER-LIGHT BRUSH against my cheek detonated through every nerve ending. My arm shot out before I was fully awake, fingers clamping around a slender wrist. I blinked once. Twice.

Hazel eyes. Strands of auburn-copper hair fanning out on tanned-olive skin. My wife. I released her so quickly it felt like ripping off a bandage.

“Fuck. Lia.”

One perfectly arched brow quirked upward. “Good morning to you too, Rambo.”

Relief hit me first, like a cool wave over scorched earth. Then guilt followed in a violent backwash, churning my stomach until I almost retched. Julia stood over me in dark-wash jeans that hugged her hips, a fitted black top that whispered of refinement, and simple flats. Her hair was swept back in a low twist, each strand obedient. On one arm hung a sleek garment bag; in her other hand, a cardboard carrier cradling two steaming cups.

On my desk sat a crumpled paper bag, half collapsed. I forced my gaze toward the windows, where pale morning sunlight spilled in, painting stripes on the hardwood floor.

Shit. “What time is it?” I croaked.

“Almost eight.” She set the drinks down. The aroma of rich coffee curled between us.

I pushed myself up, heart pounding in my throat. “Fuck.”

“Yes, you’ve said that.” Her voice was steady, not accusatory—making every syllable sharper.

“I was supposed to come home.”

“I noticed.”

She didn’t say it like a reproach. Just a statement. That was worse.