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I spend my day tucked away, burying myself in paperwork and phone calls, in files and casework, in guard duty and security checks, in updates from Travis, who is still off-site searching for Mica, in the eternal fight to not stalk Carter through the house’s security camera feeds.
At six every evening, we eat dinner—sometimes just a few of us, if the survivors have had a hard group therapy session or someone had a meltdown that shook everyone up, sometimes almost all of us crowd around the table as we try to figure out how to fit together in more ways than one. Dr. Singh sits in Ace’s office to keep watch so the operatives can all have some time together and he can have an hour to decompress. Carter usually comes to these dinners. When I told him that Travis left the morning after I sent him to find Mica, we had shared apologies for all the awful shit we said to each other and came to a fragile stalemate. We’re not better by any means, but we can at least be in the same room and remain civil. We even manage to trade a few smiles.
The group of us eat and chat and sometimes laugh. Nolan blushes up a storm when people compliment his cooking. Bryce grows more bold with his trolling of the operatives, always so spot-on that we’re helpless to do anything but laugh our asses off. Matt showing up is always a win, but some nights we even get the bonus of him engaging with us.
When dinner is finished, Matt and Nolan always insist on doing the cleaning. The other survivors scatter. Jake, Ace, and I usually take this time to touch base on any new information or issues we may have. Then I go for a walk outside as the sun starts to set, checking in with the exterior agents, assessing the property, and touching my fingertips to the roses I planted for my mom.
Two of those evenings, Nolan was struggling too much to come down, meaning Ace cooked dinner. I’ve survived a lot of things, but those nights are up there for risk factor. Not just because it makes me want to crawl out of my skin knowing Nolan is upset, but because Ace’s cooking is the equivalent of warmed-up roadkill.
On those evenings, I go to the gym for an extra workout to keep myself from searching Nolan out. The bottle of whiskey accompanies me. Our deal is the two of us at night, in front of that fire, talking about the things we don’t want to say in the light. We don’t really come together during the day. Not for the bad stuff, at least. After I work off that urge to break the rules, I shower and change and take a walk in the dark instead. Always checking, always assessing, always needing to touch those roses.
After the house falls quiet, I’ll go into the living room and start a fire. Early in our new routine, we had moved to the floor halfway through our conversation about his first few days as a slave. It had been because he’d lied and said his shaking was from the cold instead of the trauma of recounting the things that were done to him. He seemed to like being by the fire though, being able to study the flames as he spoke, so the following day, I had set blankets down for us and never stopped.
Some nights, we go looking for snacks or liquor—or both. Other nights, we stay rooted to the spot as we sift through our nightmares, both living and imagined. I tell him about the times I’m trapped in a house that won’t let me out, Carter outside being hurt. How sometimes I can take his place, but it never matters. No matter how much I let them hurt me, it never changes Carter’s fate. How waking up doesn’t matter because it’s my reality too. He tells me his dreams about Travis, always dead, always in the Roarke compound, always leaving Nolan abandoned with no way forward.
Sometimes I tell him whatever I safely can about work, sticking to lighter details if it’s the kind of night that needs them, sharing the grittier stuff if the mood fits. I tell him if there’s an update on Carter’s and my relationship, usually in the form of tiny smiles and looks that were surprisingly not antagonistic. He tells me if there’s an update on Matt’s recovery, usually in the form of making it through a meal without running off—Nolan always running after him, of course—or the young man sleeping in his own bed all night.
Some nights, Nolan lays his arms on the ledge of the fireplace to pillow his head and watches my face as we talk. On those nights, I let myself watch him back, studying the way the firelight dances off the blond highlights in his hair, how it paints his cheeks rosier than they really are, how his eyes are full of sparks that have nothing to do with the fire inches away. On those nights, we talk about happy things. Stories of childhoods and high school and dates gone wrong. On the sixth night, he laughs for the first time. It’s all deep and warm and goddamn beautiful. Breathtakingly so. I make it my mission to draw more from him every chance I get.
Some nights, he wraps a blanket around his shoulders like a shield and keeps his face turned away toward the fire. On those nights, I watch tears slowly trail down his cheeks as he whispers tales of horror and fear. He tells me about the man Travis is hunting, Mica, who never seemed to get hard until his slave was spilling tears or blood—ideally both. He tells me about a man named Kylor, who would bring them down to the dungeon with a pair of night vision goggles on, turn off the lights, and tell them to try to escape. One slave fell down the stairs and broke their neck, dying instantly. Kylor thankfully got killed by a rival a week later.
“They did nothing about it,” Nolan had whispered. “Travis. Jake. Neither of them. Travis acted annoyed that he’d have to replace the slave to have a full roster, then waved his hand at Jake to go clean up the mess.”
“No,” I had said firmly. “Travis had a panic attack so severe Jake gave him unauthorized medication to curb it. Jake got that slave’s body to a police department that I had an in with, where they took the body from him and contacted his family so they could have closure and give him a proper burial. And Kylor? The enemy that took him out was me—Travis sent him straight to my coordinates. I broke his neck without damaging the brain stem so he’d be beautifully paralyzed and aware, and then I smothered him in honey, put him outside of a cabin, and sat by the window with a drink while the wild animals enjoyed a nice meal.”
I had been afraid for a moment that it was too far, too much of my truth, too much of my dark side, but Nolan had just looked right at me and asked, “Did they eat his penis?”
I had fucking grinned. “It was a raccoon that enjoyed that particular snack.”
“And it was a snack,” Nolan had said with a soft laugh then, eyes and cheeks still wet. “That fucker’s cock was so fucking small, I never even needed prep.”
There was something satisfying about that piece of information—not about the size of the fucker’s penis, but that he raped Nolan. He raped Nolan, and I killed him. Fuck, I wish I could go back and do it all again. Savor it more. Drag it out. Maybe just tie him up instead so he could have felt the pain of it all, even if the irony wouldn’t have been as nice.
Some nights, we don’t talk at all. We sit side by side, shoulders pressed together, eyes on the fire, and just be.
I have rules for our nights together. If he skipped dinner or ran off halfway through to chase Matt, I make sure he eats. I never let him stay awake past three because it’s not fair to keep him awake with how much he already has on his plate. I ask permission before touching him, even if it’s just to adjust the blanket slipping off his shoulder or wipe a tear from his cheek. I don’t let myself ask him questions about Carter, not wanting him to ever feel like I’m using him for information.
Most days are hard. Some are fucking excruciating. But the nights? It feels like I can breathe at night. Like every hour we spend together basked in the glow of firelight, whispering and laughing and crying, is gold poured between our cracks, fusing us into something beautiful and unique and whole.
And then Travis comes back and ruins everything.
I know that Travis is on his way back hours before he arrives. The search for Mica hit a dead end, and until the new lead pans out, there’s no reason he can’t be here. I don’t tell Carter he’s coming. I could lie and try to tell myself it’s because there’s a chance Ace will work his magic fast enough to end up rerouting Travis before he ever even makes it back here, but that’s far-fetched at best and not worth the effort. Honestly, I just don’t think I can handle seeing the excitement on his face after days of subsisting on barely-there smiles and mumbled words from him.
I’m not exactly ready for Travis to be back. My head is still so fucked when it comes to him. On one hand, I want Travis to stay gone so Carter can heal properly, so Nolan doesn’t have to face him again, so I don’t have to be reminded of the time he choked my brother on his cock just feet away from me. On the other hand, Travis is like my own brother, a man I’ve talked to nearly every day for the last decade, and I fucking miss him.
Nolan keeps me company even though his back has been ramrod straight since I mentioned Travis’s impending return. The conversation is stilted and full of a little too much wine on his end. When outside security informs me they have a visual of Travis’s vehicle five minutes out, Nolan helps me carry the empty second bottle of wine and glasses to the kitchen and whispers good night with a haunted look in his eyes.
Travis badges into the safehouse just as I’ve doused the fire, exhaustion weighing down his every step. The first thing he says when he locks his eyes with mine is, “Where’s Carter?”
It takes everything in me not to punch him in the fucking face. “It’s late. He’s sleeping.” When his eyes flicker toward the hall that leads to Carter’s room, I have to swallow a growl. “Leave him alone, man. Can’t you wait until morning instead of interrupting the very little sleep he manages to get?”
Looking properly chastised, he rubs the back of his neck and nods. “Yeah. Right. Of course. I just—how is he?”
“I don’t really know. He doesn’t talk to me. But Jake has been keeping a good eye on him. He said he thinks he’s hanging in there.”
“He’s still not talking to you?”
“Nope.” I can’t help but shoot him a dirty look. I also can’t help that it’s satisfying when he flinches and looks away. “I’m sure he’ll talk to you, though. Magical Travis who can do no wrong.”
