“I’m…I knowhowto swear.” An indignant pout curves her lips, and she tries to extricate herself from my grip, but I’m not letting her go anywhere. “I don’t cry. I haven’t cried in…I just don’t. Ihatecrying.” Her cheeks flush a deep shade of splotchy red. “Please let me go.”
“No. Talk to me.”
Her snort riles my anger, and I stare up at the ceiling, counting to five so I don’t lose my temper with her. “I know I suck at conversation, okay? When you spend fifteen months having the shit beat out of you every fucking day just so you’lltalk, it…does something to you. But that doesn’t mean I can’t listen.”
Her bloodshot eyes glisten with fresh tears, and I risk loosening one arm so I can wick them away. “You’re safe with me, Wren. Whatever Kolya’s doing, we’ll stop him. But we have to be smart about it. And me busting into his fortress with no idea what I’m going to find…that’s not smart. We need help. And a plan.”
“But—”
With a finger to her lips, I stop her protest. “Tell me what meds you need right now. Then after you take them, we’re going to eat something and you can fill me in on what you found.”
She doesn’t move, and I arch a brow. “You’re still panicky. I can feel your heartbeat, sweetheart. Your breathing’s choppy and your pupils are half blown. Don’t argue.”
“Xanax. The blue ovals in my pill bottle. Just one.” Her resistance gone, she leans back against the couch, sniffling quietly.
I go into the kitchen for a glass of water, and when I come back, she has her knees pulled up to her chest, staring at her darkened computer screen like it’s going to bite her.
She doesn’t argue when I hand her the pill and water and sits quietly while I mix up a couple of the better MREs—the ones West always snags for his fiancé because of their hard-as-a-brick brownies.
“Steak and potatoes,” I say. “Tomorrow, I’ll grab McD’s.”
Wren stabs a piece of meat with her spork and sniffs it. “I haven’t had McDonald’s since Z and I were kids.”
“One of the most reliable places to eat when you’re in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and don’t speak the language. A Big Mac is always a Big Mac.” Her small smile rights my entire world, and I look away. What am I doing?
It’s a relationship, stupid. Like normal people have.
Well, maybe not like normalpeople. Normal people don’t hide out in Russian safe houses eating MREs with the mob after them andenjoytheir nights.
“Tell me about him?” I ask.
Wren glances down at her wrist, and if she didn’t have the spork in her hand, I know she’d be running her fingers over the beads. “He was a good kid. Quirky,” she says. “He loved Harry Potter and soccer. When he was eight, he ‘rescued’ a bird that flew in our window. Tried to convince our mom it was a parakeet.”
“What was it?”
“A pigeon. That chubby bird pooped all over the living room before Mom got home. Z had to wash the dishes by hand for a solid month before she forgave him. She took the racks out of the dishwasher and everything.” Light dances in Wren’s eyes, and she leans back against the couch, her shoulders finally dropping from up around her ears.
“My…brother hit a baseball through our neighbor’s window when he was twelve. Pop made him clean Mrs. Sylverton’s house top to bottom every week for a year.” Shock at my own admission sends me digging in my MRE for the last drops of gravy, though the damn things only ever last me five minutes.
“You have a brother?”
“Had.” Pushing to my feet, I head for the kitchen, dump the empty pouch, and dig another one out of my rolling duffel bag. Except, I’m not hungry anymore, so I brace my hands on the sink and stare out the back window into the darkness.
Until she finds me. I should have known. And dammit. She’s still unsteady on her feet. “Come on. You’re wiped.” I sweep her up into my arms as she protests, but she rests her head on my shoulder.
“You’re not getting out of this conversation,” she says, and though she’s obviously out of sorts from the meds, there’s an edge to her voice warning me she’s not about to let me off the hook.
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Except into the sleeping bag. With you. And without most of these clothes.” Setting her down on the couch, I drop to a knee and pull off her boots. “My brother followed me into the army.”
Slowly, savoring every inch, I run my hands up her legs to the waistband of her leggings. Touching her grounds me, and I can see Paul’s face without the guilt and self-loathing that so often accompanies my memories. “His unit was on patrol outside Fallujah. Roadside bomb.” Her pants land on top of her boots. “He died instantly.”
“I’m sorry, Ry.” Soft fingers skate over the back of my neck, and she pulls me close enough for me to feel her breath ghost across my cheek. “Were you close?”
“Yes and no. We were seven years apart. Didn’t have a damn thing in common. But the year before I enlisted, we started to connect.” With a shake of my head, I pull back the top sleeping bag, then wrap my hands around her waist and ease her down. “No moving,” I say sternly as I rise and undo my belt. We don’t speak until I lay each weapon, tool, and piece of gear in precise order down on the low coffee table.
“Are you always this…organized?” Wren asks.
“With my equipment? Yes.” This isn’t a conversation I want to have. All the possibilities running through my head every time I close my eyes. “You ready to tell me what had you so panicked earlier?”
