Page 38 of North

“It’s fine. I know you were in Kazakhstan.” She’d pointed to a bag in the hallway that still held his check tag. “Airport code ALA. I think that’s Almaty, right?”

He’d wrinkled his nose at her. “You travel too much. And I plead the fifth.”

“I get it. You tell me, you have to kill me.”

Skeet had poured himself a cup of coffee. “No. North would just grab you up and disappear into the night.”

“Why? He’s not a killer?” She’d winked, but the words had hit him in the chest.

And it hadn’t helped when Skeet took a sip of coffee and said, “Oh no, he’s a killer.”

North had stared at him. What⁠—

“All that lethal charm,” Skeet had said then, winking at Selah.

She’d rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove, and North had tried to eviscerate Skeet with a look. C’mon. The last thing he’d wanted his missionary girlfriend to associate with him was…well, the things he did OCONUS.

Things unmentioned and yet sanctioned.

Things needed for America to be safe.

He had lost his appetite.

He’d left to change clothes, and when he returned to the kitchen, Skeet had left.

Selah had sat at his kitchen table, sipping her coffee, wearing a distant look. But she’d smiled at him when he appeared. Set down her coffee. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Just…I don’t know. Something…” She’d lifted her shoulder.

She could read right through him sometimes.

He’d sat down at the table. Reached for the bowl of eggs.

“I know you do dangerous things, North. I mean—you were the guy who rescued me in Nigeria.” Her hand had gone to his arm, squeezed.

He’d given her a look, sighed. Nearly added to her statement. But oh, he hadn’t wanted her to see…Well, certain pockets of his life were simply off-limits.

Except she’d reached out and touched the scar on his jaw. He usually wore a beard or a scruff of whiskers over it. That day, he’d shaved.

“How old were you when you got this?”

He’d told her the story before, although maybe not in detail.

“I was thirteen.”

“Playground fight, right?”

He’d sighed. “A kid named Bobby Jenkins had this fifth grader pinned against the monkey bars. Kurt Morris. He was maybe eleven, scrawny kid. Asthma.”

“And you just walked over…”

“Told Bobby to back off.” He’d smiled into his coffee as he picked it up. “Bobby didn’t. So I helped him back off.”

“And got this.” Her finger had traced the scar again.

“Bobby had a ring. Bled more than it hurt.”