The chapel.
His mouth.
The way his hands shook when he grabbed me, like he was begging and punishing all at once.
“Fuck, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re mine, Butterfly. Always fucking mine.”
But he was drunk.
He was drunk and drunk men lie.
I press Mason’s hand harder to my chest, trying to silence the war inside me.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I beg the unconscious man beside me. “Tell me he doesn’t mean it. Tell me he’s not still in here—” I slam my fist against my sternum, the pain blooming sharp. “—in every fucking beat.”
Mason doesn’t answer.
Of course he doesn’t.
But his hand twitches in mine, the smallest, weakest squeeze and I break all over again because maybe he doesn’t have to.
Maybe I already know.
So I stay.
Through the night.
Through the long hours of nothing but machines and shadows.
Through the quiet that feels louder than any bomb I’ve ever heard.
I stay and when the first light of dawn filters through the canvas, I’m still holding his hand, whispering the truth I’m too fucking scared to tell Dax myself:
“I love him.”
The words hang in the air, raw and fragile, like they don’t belong to me but Mason’s fingers twitch again and I know he heard.
Chapter Twenty Three
Dax
The desert is a liar.
It looks flat, dead, endless—but every shadow hides teeth, and every corner is a place to bleed.
My vest clings like a second skin, sweat stinging down my spine, my rifle digging into my shoulder so hard it feels like bone. The convoy hums low, engines vibrating through the floor, but no one talks. Not this far out. Not after Mason.
The silence rides heavy, broken only by the static hiss in my headset and the occasional clink of gear shifting against gear. I can smell diesel. Burnt sand. The sour tang of my own sweat.
“Eyes up,” Reese mutters over comms. His voice is low, clipped. He’s two seats down, face shadowed by the brim of his helmet. “Too quiet.”
Too quiet.
Always too quiet before it happens.
I adjust my grip on the rifle, fingers flexing, the trigger an itch in my palm. My gaze skates the horizon—mud-brick walls,blown-out windows, the skeleton of a minaret leaning like it’s tired of standing.
