Then she scowled.
“Don’t think of me,” she ordered, shaking her head as if annoyed. “Think of your brother.”
The words sliced through his mind.
Markos’s breath hitched as memories crashed into him like a flash flood. Nikos laughing, twelve years old, dragging him into the surf off Naxos. Bleeding. Standing over a chessboard. Relaxing. Firing a gun. Holding a drink. Looking lost.
And then—a darker memory.
A whisper of blackness.
Fear.
He flinched.
Remembered pain blossomed. The coppery scent of blood, the way it slid down his body, the slowing heartbeat—it nearly made him gag.
The world tilted. His chest tightened.
No. Contain it. Don’t let it out.
He snapped his mind into gear, defaulting to the one method that had always worked when he had been held captive.
“One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three?—”
“What are you doing?” she hissed, her fingers tightening on his wrist.
“One thousand four. One thousand five?—”
“Stop.”
She released his wrist with a growl of frustration.
Markos slumped slightly, sweat dotting his brow.
The air between them pulsed.
He watched her as she sat back, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, her head shaking. Her lips moved as if she were arguing with herself. Muttering.
And then he caught it.
“It was you,” she whispered—soft, horrified. “Not Nikos. You were the soldier.”
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Her voice had barely been audible, but the words echoed like thunder inside him. He blinked—and rage stirred like a long-dormant beast. His hand shot out, clamping around her wrist with a grip hard enough to warn but not injure.
Her eyes widened.
“How the hell did you—?” He shook his head, the muscle in his jaw pulsing with emotion. “Who the hell are you, and why do you want my brother?”
Her lips parted—but this time, they trembled.
“I’m… Kiki,” she said, her voice softer. “I need to find Nikos. He’s in danger.”
“From whom?” His voice was a low rumble. Controlled. Barely.
She looked away, as if debating whether to tell him.
