“Never.” The truth hits me, hard. My first instinct is to bolt. Take off out the door and run until even I don’t know how to find myself again. But then I catch sight of Raelynn out of the corner of my eye. She’s holding onto that coffee cup like it’s a shield, her expression equal parts pride and fear, and I know running isn’t the answer.
I want a life here.
“What Ry’s trying to say—”
“For fuck’s sake, Sampson. I don’t need a goddamn translator.” He runs his palm over his bald head. “Not anymore.” Staring down at me with both hands on his hips, he arches a single brow. “Every single one of us—including Raelynn—fought to be here. To survive. She deserves someone in her life who’ll do the same.”
“I’ve got food!” Graham calls from the door. “Get it while it’s…nowhere near hot?” His arms are laden with two large paper bags from one of Seattle’s best Thai restaurants. “No trace of Ruiz. Tank’s sitting on Broadcast in case he comes back. I’ll go relieve him in a couple of hours.”
“Oh, thank Goldilocks,” Wren says. “The baby wants curry.”
I turn to Raelynn. “Goldilocks?”
“Wren doesn’t swear.” She smiles, some of the light returning to her eyes. “Not like the rest of us. You get used to it. Fudgesicles is my favorite. And spitsnacks. You’ll figure it out. Eventually.”
Everyone beelines for the kitchen. As soon as no one’s looking our way, she reaches up to cup my cheek. “Ry…wasn’t wrong. He never is. Annoying as fuck.”
“You’re ‘half gone over me’?” Sliding my hand down to cup her ass, I give it a quick, hard squeeze. Her smile lights up my whole world. “Good. Because I’m falling for you too.”
“This him?” Ripper angles his laptop toward me. “Duncan Wilder.”
The years haven’t been kind to the man I once called “Uncle Duncan.” His white hair is styled in a terrible combover, and heavy bags gather under his eyes. “Yes. How’d you find him?”
It’s after four. Wyatt took Wren home an hour ago. West and Inara spar in the boxing ring, while Tank races Raelynn up the climbing wall. Ryker’s on his way back with the motorcycle after getting the tire fixed.
The haunted man across the table from me shakes his head. “Wasn’t easy. Hacking the Marshals Service would take a week—even for Wren—so we’ve been working with approximate age plus what little you could remember about his visits and hitting the DMV in every state on the eastern seaboard.”
“What about his flight?” Raelynn’s phone sits between us, completely silent. I checked it five minutes ago, but that doesn’t stop me from tapping the screen again. No messages. No calls.
“There are a hundred ways to get from Italy to Seattle. I can set an alert for customs, but if he’s in the air, he’ll land before I can hack my way into even a single airline.” Ripper meets my gaze for a split second before he returns his focus to his screen. This is the most he’s said all day, but he’s clearly uncomfortable. With me? Or with everyone?
Raelynn lets out a triumphant yell as she slaps the ceiling at the top of the climbing wall. “Hot damn. Pick up the pace, probie!”
Ryker, who walked through the door only moments ago, stares up at her. “Tank’s only here for another week, you know.”
Pushing off the wall, she floats to the ground—some sort of rappelling system controlling her descent—and brushes her hands on her thighs. “He’s one of us, ain’t he? That makes him the probie even if he does work for Second Sight. All y’all can start callin’ me by name any time now.”
“Second Sight?” I ask.
Ryker strips off his leather jacket and drops down into a chair next to Ripper. “You all right, brother?”
“Fine. Answer the man.”
So Ripper doesn’t like talking to anyone.
With one big hand on Ripper’s shoulder, Ryker leans in and lowers his voice to a whisper. I pick up Raelynn’s phone and turn away, giving the two men some privacy. In one of the quieter moments after lunch, Raelynn told me they served together but that Ripper “went through some shit” before he came home. Given the scars covering every inch of Ryker’s exposed skin, I can’t imagine what additional hell would qualify as “some shit.”
“Getting some coffee,” Ripper says. He sways when he pushes to his feet, and I think his right hand shakes until he balls it into a fist. But he recovers quickly and strides to the kitchen.
Ryker stretches his legs out and crosses them at the ankles. “Eight years ago, my ODA team was captured. They held us for fifteen months.” He gestures to his face. “Fuckers couldn’t stand how handsome I was.”
Am I supposed to laugh?
“You weren’t handsome,” Ripper calls from the coffee pot. “You were pretty.”
“Asshole.” One corner of Ryker’s mouth twitches. “Three of us survived. Rip…got the worst of it. For another six years. Thanks to a sadistic fuck in Afghanistan and a couple of low-life JSOC shitstains. Dax and I didn’t talk for a long damn time. He started a security firm in Boston, and I came out here. After we got Rip back, we realized we could do more—save more people—if we merged our two companies.”
The phone buzzes on the table, and I scramble to pick it up.
