Marci’s mouth softened.“Good.Settled.”
Casey reached over and squeezed my hand.“We’ll run drills.You won’t go in cold.”
“Drills,” I repeated weakly.
Casey’s grin turned wicked.“You thought we stopped at lists and stress-baking?Nah, honey.We might bake cookies, but we’re made of steel.”
* * *
They weren’t joking about the drills.
Marci timed us with her phone.How fast we could gather kids from different corners of the clubhouse.How quickly we could get down the stairs.How smoothly we could lock the door and settle everyone enough to keep them quiet if it ever became real.
The first run was chaos.
Crayons scattered across the floor in rainbow chaos.A little boy with a bowl cut dropped his toy truck and planted himself, refusing to budge until I promised we’d retrieve his precious cargo.Casey’s daughter ran between us, pigtails bouncing, asking “Are we playing a game?”while giggling and darting around our legs.My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I feared I might vomit.
Casey moved through the children with natural grace.Her voice remained cheerful yet firm, her hands never hesitated, transforming what could have become terror into an exciting challenge with prizes.
The third practice run flowed more smoothly -- a coordinated effort rather than wild scrambling.Children remembered their path downstairs.They knew whose hand to hold.The basement lost its scariness because we adults never flinched when entering.
My gun felt heavy on my hip the entire time.Not because I wanted to use it.Because it reminded me what we were training for.
When we finished, sweaty and out of breath, Marci checked her watch.“Faster,” she announced.“Not bad.We shave thirty seconds off and I’m satisfied.”
“I thought I left gym class behind,” I muttered, wiping my forehead.
Casey snorted.“Welcome to the only phys ed that matters.”
Later, after the kids went down for naps and the men vanished into another closed-door meeting, I found myself back at our house.The quiet was different there.Deeper.Like the silence had thicker walls.
I stood in the living room staring at the picture frame on the shelf.Mom smiled from behind glass.Jason wrapped his arm around my shoulders.My younger face beamed with a carefree expression belonging to someone else entirely.
The knowledge burned through me -- Victor had touched this frame, pried the photo off my wall, treated my family memories as nothing but a means to an end.
I picked it up, turned it over.Something in my chest burned, hot and ugly.
I placed the frame back on the shelf with exaggerated care, as though the trembling rage inside me might somehow shatter the glass and destroy these last remnants of my past.
Chapter Eleven
Jade
My gaze traced the ceiling while I lay in Kane’s bed, watching cracks in the paint transform into constellations.Three longer lines ran near the corner.A cluster of tiny spiderweb splits spread over the fan.One jagged mark above the door resembled lightning trapped in drywall.I counted them, recounted them, trying to transform them into something making sense -- something controllable.
Kane slept on his back beside me, one arm thrown above his head, the other draped across my stomach as though his body refused to let me drift away while his mind shut down.His fingers spread wide, the heel of his palm warming me through my T-shirt.His breath rose slow and steady, creating a rhythm which felt almost unfair compared to my own chest tightening and loosening, unable to decide whether air seemed worth the effort.
Clean sheets and his soap scented the room, along with a faint motor-oil edge clinging to his clothes despite endless washing.My lungs filled with the familiar mixture.The walls stood real around me, the door remained locked, and beside me lay a man who never folded when pressure came calling.My body recognized safety here before my mind could catch up.
Safe, my body tried to insist.
Temporary, the old fear answered back, sliding a blade between my ribs.
I shifted on the mattress.The movement yanked Kane from sleep with military precision.His fingers pressed into my hip without conscious thought.
“You okay?”The words came out rough, sleep-heavy, but alert underneath.
A laugh almost escaped me, sharp and humorless.“That question is cursed.Every time someone asks, the answer stays ugly.”
