But I had to do something.
I grabbed her shoulders, walked her backward until her spine hit the wall. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, then drew my fist back.
She saw it coming, those eyes widening, but didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch away. Like she trusted me even now, even in this nightmare I’d dragged her into.
My knuckles slammed into the wall beside her head, close enough that she felt the wind of it, close enough that drywalldust settled in her hair. The impact sent shock waves up my arm. Drywall cracked, a spider web of damage spreading from the point of impact. Pain shot through my hand—at least two knuckles split, probably the same ones I’d broken in that bar fight in Tijuana she’d patched up years ago—but I kept my face neutral.
Mia flinched hard, whole body jerking away, but still no sound.
“Shit.” I cradled my damaged hand against my chest, blood already seeping between my fingers, dripping onto the floor in a pattern that would be a bitch to clean later. “Bathroom’s there if you need it.”
She looked at the narrow door like it might bite her. Something flickered across her face—reluctance? Fear? The expression was new, one I’d never seen on her face in the two years we’d been together. But she nodded, moving toward it with careful steps that seemed measured, calculated.
“Take your time,” I said louder, making sure the others would hear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ve got all night. I’m looking forward to it.”
She paused just on the inside of the bathroom, her face even paler, if that was possible. She stared at the doorknob for way too long before pulling the door closed slowly, like she was forcing herself to do it. Not the slam I was expecting.
When she emerged a few minutes later, I knew something was wrong. Her skin had gone clammy, a sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cool Montana evening. Her hands trembled as she gripped the doorframe, knuckles white with the force of it. The way she breathed—too controlled, too careful—reminded me of soldiers coming out of bunkers after artillery bombardments. That thousand-yard stare that meant they were seeing something other than what was in front of them.
At first, I thought it was from the situation, and who could blame her? But she was definitely more unsteady on her feet than she had been when she’d gone in.
“You okay?”
She looked at me for a long moment, then away. “The bathroom. It’s…small.”
“Small?” I studied her face, the way she wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Mia?—”
“I’m claustrophobic. Okay?” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, like she was reporting the weather. “Can’t handle tight spaces anymore.”
“Since when?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. When we’d been together, she’d had no problem with small spaces. Hell, we’d made love in a closet at her friend’s house during a party once, her hand over my mouth to keep me quiet while she rode me, both of us trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it.
“Since after you left.” She finally met my eyes, and I saw something hard there, defensive. “A lot can change in six years, Ryan. You don’t know everything about me anymore.” A bitter smile twisted her lips. “Just like I obviously don’t know everything about you. Like why you’re here with these men, playing someone I don’t recognize.”
The words hit like shrapnel. Six years, we’d been apart. Six years of accumulated damage neither of us knew about. She wasn’t the same woman who used to trace patterns on my chest while I told her about my deployments, who’d made me promise to always come home to her. I wasn’t the same man who’d promised her forever over coffee in her kitchen, who’d been looking at engagement rings before that last mission changed everything.
Something had happened to her after I’d left. Something bad enough to make small spaces a terror instead of justuncomfortable. The not-knowing ate at me, but now wasn’t the time to push. We had bigger problems.
Through the wall, Diesel’s voice boomed. “Getting boring over here, Coop. You fall asleep or something?”
“Maybe he’s gone soft,” Tommy suggested, trying to sound knowing. “All talk, no action.”
“Shut up, Tommy.” Diesel spoke again, but there was an edge to it. “Though he’s got a point, Coop. Awful quiet for a man who was so eager five minutes ago.”
They were getting suspicious. We were running out of time, and every second that passed without the sounds they expected was another tick toward them kicking in that door.
These men were animals, but smart animals. One slip, one moment where I wasn’t who I claimed to be, and they’d gut me just to watch me bleed.
And I couldn’t even allow myself to think about what they’d do to Mia afterward.
“Please,” I whispered, moving closer to her. Every step felt like betrayal. “I’m begging you, Mia. Try again. Just…scream. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just loud enough?—”
She tried. God help her, she tried. The sound that came out was thin, forced, so obviously fake that even Tommy would know it was wrong, and Tommy was dumb enough to think wrestling was real. It was the kind of scream someone made in a high school drama class, not the raw, terrified sound of someone being hurt.
Snake’s footsteps creaked on the porch outside my window. Slow. Deliberate. He was listening with that predator focus that had kept him alive through whatever dark shit he’d done before joining Oliver’s militia. Each footstep was a countdown.
I looked at the closet door. Looked at Mia. Self-hatred rose in my throat like vomit.
The closet was barely a closet—more like a narrow vertical coffin that the camp had probably used for cleaning supplies back when this was a place where kids made friendship bracelets and sang around campfires. Now it held my tactical gear, the lies that kept my cover intact.
