Page 2 of What Remains

Wyatt’s ass-chewing had been expected and deserved. He was right—she should never have been my wingwoman. Period. Exclamation point. All the angry grammatical shit.

His forgiveness, and her promises it “wasn’t my fault,” did nothing to help my shitty headspace both then and now. Not a damn thing. I haven’t stepped into a cockpit since that night. Even after ditching the crutches. Even after being cleared to fly.

“Miracle,” he says as I open my eyes. “That’s what I heard they called it when she wasn’t paralyzed like the docs said she’d be.”

I woke up after surgery to find out she was in an induced coma and may never walk again. Possibly have brain damage as well. Those were the worst days of my life, and nothing will ever top how awful it felt waiting for her to come to. Just thinking about it now has me wanting to cliff dive without a chute.

My sister prayed for her when I couldn’t bring myself to bend a knee. I was too angry. Too messed up in the head. Too torn apart to do anything other than yell at God.

If she hadn’t been okay, I’d have found a way to stop the rotation of the earth and rewind time to change things. Because no, Gwen isn’t allowed to get hurt or die. Not on my watch, or anyone’s clock.

But a miracle did happen. And the breath returned to my lungs. The guilt, though, hasn’t gone away.

“Yo, you good?”

No, no the fuck I’m not.

A beat of stillness hangs before I force out the lie, “I’ll be fine.” I fish a pack of Spearmint from my pocket, needing something to grind instead of guilt.

“Dusty, I’ve known you a long⁠—”

“I don’t use that call sign anymore.” I earned the name kicking up dust on low-altitude runs; ironic for a pilot who prides himself on precision. Now it just reminds me of how far I’ve come only to have one operation nearly take everything from me.

“The point is . . . you can talk to me. I know what it’s like to not want to get back in a cockpit.”

That’s news to me. “Nothing to talk about.” I hoist my duffel bag. “I’m good. Really. Tell your sister hi for me, will ya?”

“Will do.” He smiles.

“And, uh, sorry about the separation.” I pat his shoulder twice.

He doesn’t say anything, just nods.

I force a breath through my nose, shove everything back into its box, and head for the service elevators. I nearly collide with the question mark who looks ready to disappear. He gives me a curt nod, dark eyes assessing me before I step past.

Typical Sapphire clientele—half ghosts, half legends. This place isn’t exactly a hotel, though. It’s a no-man’s-land outside NATO and EU jurisdiction, owned by Carter Dominick and a billionaire Irishman, Sebastian Renaud. They bought the place off a crime lord and flipped it so well my sister swore it deserved its own HGTV pilot.

I started running ops with Carter after leaving the Air Force. He dangled the morally gray carrot, and I bit. (Just like Nash did, along with several others.)

When Carter’s first wife was murdered, we helped him burn half the world down to find her killer. He got his vengeance but never retired from righting wrongs. A couple years back, he folded me into Falcon Falls, a security outfit he co-runs with the secretary of defense’s son.

This alpine fortress is now Falcon’s international HQ—a place where missions are planned, alliances are forged, and secrets come to die. It’s also a refuge for burned operatives looking to rebuild. Now I’m here for the first time since I moved out, but as one of the broken.

I blink back to the present as the elevator doors slide open. Inside, I swap my bag for my badge, tap the keycard, and punch in my code to access the rooftop.

As the car hums upward, a memory hits from the last time I was in this steel box. I can almost see Gwen’s reflection in the mirrored panel. Wavy blonde hair over her shoulders, that small dimple in her chin, the other flashing in her right cheek whenever she’d laugh at one of my terrible jokes.

When the doors open, the spell breaks. I manage a clean escape onto the terrace, and the December air knifes right through my fleece jacket. Dropping my duffel bag, I ignore the cold and lean into the wind, grateful no one else is dumb enough to chase frostbite for solitude.

Five seconds. That’s all I get before another person I didn’t anticipate seeing calls out, “Easton!”

If I don’t move, maybe I’ll discover it’s just the breeze carrying my name forward from the past. A phantom memory haunting me from when we used to live down the hall from each other.

Her Dolce & Gabbana hits first, the same perfume she’s worn since the day we met. She told me the scent always transports her to the cliffs of Capri.

I clamp my gum between my back teeth, remembering I’m far from Italy and too damn close to her now. You’re supposed to be in Virginia with your dad.

“Will you look at me?” Gwen’s hand lands on my shoulder.