I couldn’t afford to lose myself. Not when the pack needed me. Not when she needed me.
The crying tapered off after a while. The shower switched on, and the hiss of water masked whatever came next. I braced my hands on either side of the door frame, staring at the grain of the wood, and counted the seconds like I used to count the beats between sniper shots: one, two, three, steady, release.
Five years. Five years since she’d ghosted me, left me with nothing but a memory of bluebonnet eyes and the echo of her wolf. I’d told myself that I didn’t care. That I could move on, build something new, learn to be a person instead of an animal trained for war. But the truth was, I’d gone to hell and back for the chance to feel her in my arms again, even if it was just to say goodbye.
She could have called. She could have written a letter, sent a text, done literally anything but disappear into the wind and end up as some other man’s toy. Her first stop wasn't that club. She'd been at Julliard. For two fucking years. Never once did she try to make contact. Instead, she let me rot, let me sign up for every black-bag mission with a life expectancy measured in hours. I’d gotten good at dying. Bronc said it was my only flaw—no self-preservation, no care for my own body. He was right. I didn’t want to live if it wasn’t with her.
It was Bronc who’d saved me, in the end. Dragged me out of a bullet-stained mudhole in Kandahar and put a beer in my hand, told me there was a place for me in the world. That was the day I learned to call Iron Valor my family, and I’d never looked back.
Until today.
The bathroom door clicked open. A billow of steam rolled out, heavy with the clean lemon-and-cedar scent of the soap Maddie stocked for her. Harper stepped out, wrapped in a towel the color of wet ash, her hair plastered to her skull and dripping down her back. She looked smaller than I remembered, and in that moment I hated myself for noticing how the curve of her collarbone still made me want to sink my teeth into her.
She stared at me, eyes red and swollen, cheeks patchy from tears. For a second, neither of us moved.
“My bed is ready for you,” I said, my voice coming out flat as a firing range.
She blinked, startled, like she’d forgotten there were other people on the planet. “I can take the couch,” she whispered. “That’ll be fine.” Her Texas accent was muted now, softer at the edges. I almost didn’t recognize it.
“I said my bed is ready for you.” My voice gruffer than I’d intended.
Her eyes snapped up to mine. “I just… that’s fine.”
I stepped aside, letting her limp past on a bad knee. She moved with the practiced grace of someone who’d had to hide pain for a living. She walked past me and gently sat on the edge of the bed, towel clutched to her chest like armor. “Is there any coffee?” she asked, voice trembling. “Or maybe tea?”
“There is. Meet me in the kitchen.”
I filled the electric kettle and set it to boil. My hands wanted to shake, but I made them move slow and steady, the way you’re supposed to handle plastic explosives or infants. I found the good tea—the one with the lavender on the label, the one Juliet said was best for nerves.
Harper had changed into a pair of gray joggers and a t-shirt that said “Cute Girls Read Smut” in bubble letters; no doubt Parker’s contribution. Her hair was twisted in a towel. She looked up at me, eyes wary.
“Have a seat.” I pointed to the low bar stool at the peninsula and handed her the cup of tea. “You need to eat,” I said, setting a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage in front of her.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten in at least a day,” I countered. “Your body needs protein if it’s going to heal. Eat, or I’ll call Juliet and have her force-feed you.” I meant it as a joke, but it landed flat.
She picked up the fork with her left hand. I’d almost forgotten she was left-handed. She poked at the eggs and took a bite. “They’re cold,” she said, but not like she was complaining.
“Sorry.”
She took a bite, chewed slow. I watched her jaw move, remembered the way she used to smirk around a mouthful of barbecue on Saturday afternoons. Now, every movement was measured, small. Like she was afraid the food might fight back.
We sat in silence for a minute. I sipped my own tea, watching the way the light traced the lines of her face. I noticed what looked like a fresh scar under her chin that hadn’t been there before. I wanted to ask how she’d gotten it, but I bit my tongue instead.
“I know you’re angry,” she said, not looking at me. “You don’t have to hide it.”
I set the mug down. “I’m tired, Harper.”
She snorted, a sound that was almost a laugh. “That’s a lie. You’re furious. You’ve been grinding your teeth since I got here.”
“Would you prefer I yelled?”
She shrugged, a slow, careful movement. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
I looked at her then, really looked. The bones in her wrists stood out sharper under the skin. She was thinner than I remembered, but every muscle was still mapped out under the bruises and the fading marks from God knows what. I wondered if I could love a woman who’d been broken so many times, or if I was just chasing the ghost of who she used to be.
“What happens now?” she asked, pushing the plate away.
