Of course the first man I was remotely attracted to was dating my best friend.
I inwardly groan, my soul trying to fling itself into traffic.
Why does the universe hate me?
“Oh, Cass, I don’t think you’ve met properly, or have you?” I shake my head, too terrified to speak, too overwhelmed to breathe, absolutely not willing to open that can of fucking worms. “This is my brother, Dax.”
“This. Is. Your. Brother.” I gasp, the words tumbling out in a tone that absolutely exposes me.
I know how I sound, but I can’t keep the shock out of my mouth.
Lola beams, totally unfazed by the fact that my ovaries just staged a full-blown coup and tried to overthrow my moral compass.
“Yep,” she says, with a casual shrug that should be illegal. “Captain Dax Kingston. Two tours in Syria, one in Afghanistan, currently stationed in Germany, Special Forces, psychological ops unit. And yes”—she grins, nudging him with her elbow—“he’s as scary as he looks.”
The air around us tightens at that.
He doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t smile.
Just watches me like I’m a puzzle he’s already halfway through solving, like he’s waiting for the moment the last piece clicks into place.
I blink. “Wait… psychological ops?”
“He breaks people’s minds for a living,” Lola says, as if she’s discussing someone’s hobby. “You know — interrogations, mind games, the whole scary shadow stuff.”
“That’s not exactly accurate,” Dax mutters, voice low and lethal, resonating through the space between us with the weight of a man who’s seen too much and says too little.
She laughs. “He won’t talk about it. All classified, of course.”
She air-quotes the wordclassifiedlike it’s a punchline.
“Even his file’s redacted. I had to Google half of that just to fill in the blanks. The military loves its secrets.”
My brain is static.
Heat.
Noise.
Bass.
Him.
It’s too much.
He was… gone?
For years?
Off the grid?
Lola keeps talking like she doesn’t notice the way my entire nervous system is glitching.
“He’s been off the grid for a while. Just got back a few days ago. He didn’t even tell me until he showed up on my doorstep like some kind of moody ghost.”
“Didn’t know I needed permission,” he grunts, still looking at me, his gaze heavy enough to press fingerprints on my ribs.
