On the far side of the porch, Specs sat slumped in a battered wooden chair, her knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around them. Her eyes were red. Her mouth drawn into a tight line. She wasn’t crying. And to Lark’s knowledge, she hadn’t.
Fuck. Even Lark had purged a few unwanted, but necessary tears. She wasn’t a cold woman. She had all the feelings that everyone else had. She even showed them now and then.
However, Lark had been hardened by life long before the military had ever gotten a hold of her. Specs wasn’t built the same way. She was soft and sweet. Like a marshmallow. Always warm and fuzzy. Like a favorite blanket. But not anymore. Now, she was coiled tighter than a rattlesnake ready to strike.
Lark’s chest cracked when she heard the quiet argument unfolding between Specs and Jupiter.
“You need to eat,” Jupiter said, crouched beside her, holding a plate she clearly had no intention of touching.
“You took my laptop.” Specs’ accusation landed hard. “I had a trace running, and you slammed it shut, and now we don’t know what the hell’s going on with that. It’s like you don’t even give a fuck.”
“Of course I care, Specs. But you haven’t slept since?—”
“Don’t you even go down that road with me,” Specs interrupted Jupiter. “They counted on me to be their eyes and ears. They might be gone, but they still need me to do that.”
“I get it. Trust me, I understand,” Jupiter shot back. “But you’re no good if you’re barely breathing. Barely surviving.”
Lark turned away, unwilling to watch the pain bleed across Specs’ face and tumble from her lips. There was too much of it. In Specs. In herself.
They were the only two left.
Lark exhaled slowly, letting her arms fall to her sides as she looked out across the property. The land rolled gently, tucked between ridges and brush, sprawling like it didn’t have a care in the world. The corral was empty. A breeze teased her hair. Somewhere, a hawk shrieked overhead.
It was beautiful.
She wanted to hate it, but all she could do was resent how it made her feel. How it immediately wrapped her in the kind of warmth that let her know she was safe.
Her body was still sore from the building collapsing on it and the SUV chase. Her clothes itched. Her muscles ached. But it was the silence that tore at her.
It left too much space for memory. Too much space for regret.
She dragged in another breath, deeper this time. Trying to shake the images. The smoke. The names echoing in her head—Mina, Wes, Alvarez.
They were gone. And she was still here.
The door creaked behind her.
Lark didn’t turn.
“Beautiful morning,” a voice said gently. Female. Calm.
She rotated slowly.
A woman stood there—boots, jeans cuffed at the ankle, wearing a lightweight sweater that hung loosely over her frame. Sunlight kissed her cheekbones, her expression soft and open.
“I’m Henley,” she said, stepping out onto the porch.
Lark’s spine went stiff. Not from fear—but from instinct. She knew who Henley was and what she represented. She’d heard her name slip from Kawan’s mouth before during one oftheir many late-night, candid discussions regarding the retreat that saved him and his team numerous times. Lark had always believed that while Kawan believed that to be true, she felt it to be a little over the top. She’d worked with Kawan and his team on a dozen or more missions and they were the best of the best. The most elite. They dealt with lose-lose situations as if they were everyday occurrences, and they certainly didn’t allow their emotions to get the better of them.
But Kawan constantly told her that The Refuge wasn’t just about people who got jittery and suffered from anxiety because of a past trauma. It was about operators who couldn't sleep without checking the perimeter three times. About people who heard gunfire in every car backfire. About the ones who came back physically whole but mentally shattered, carrying invisible wounds that were just as deadly as any bullet. Intellectually, she understood what the scenic place represented. And how it helped. She understood better than most that The Refuge was a much-needed resort for many people, both in and out of the military. She’d never once belittled its services or the people who ran it.
She just never believed it was for… her.
“You must be Lark. Welcome to The Refuge,” Henley said.
The word welcome curled like barbed wire around her throat. It reminded her of too many well-meaning foster moms who offered casseroles and concerned looks, asking about her day, her feelings, her trauma.
And who never knew what to do when she refused to respond.
