Sam blinks against the light, blood streaking down his temple, lip split, one eye already swelling shut. He looks like hell—like he’s been dragged through it and then dared to crawl back out—but his mouth curls into a crooked grin anyway. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and rain. There’s dirt in the cut above his brow and the kind of exhausted amusement in his face that makes murder feel reasonable.
“Well,” he rasps. “This is gonna be a fun one to explain to Jasmine.”
My jaw locks so hard it aches.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter.
Sam chuckles, then winces, clearly regretting it. “If it helps, I was gonna be late either way.”
Anger slams into me, hot and sharp and immediate. “We didn’t grab a single enemy combatant,” I snap, rounding on him again. “Not one. And you’re telling me Seaborn decided to crash my op without bothering to tell anyone?”
Sam shrugs as much as the restraints allow. “We thought you might need backup. Tide said the pattern was solid. Comms were a mess. Guess the memo didn’t land.”
I drag a hand down my face, frustration buzzing under my skin. Mikhail slipping through our fingers again, the chaos, the timing—all of it stacking into one giant, mocking failure. The whole thing feels like a joke told in bad taste, and I’m the idiot still standing here waiting for the punchline.
The door swings open before I can respond.
“Sorry,” Moe says brightly, strolling in like he hasn’t just walked into a nightmare. “Our chopper apparently wasn’t fast enough to chase yours down.”
I stare at him, at Sam, at the whole fucked-up picture of it, and think dimly that I do not need a family reunion right now. Not here. Not like this. Not with Mikhail still out there and Delilah still under my skin like a splinter I can’t stop pressing.
I turn on my heel and storm out before I say something I can’t take back.
The hallways blur as I move, boots echoing off polished floors, my thoughts a tangled mess of rage and strategy and the sickening realization that we’re no closer than we were seven days ago. Mikhail is still free. Delilah is still fragile. And now I have to deal with this on top of—
I pass Larkin’s office and slow despite myself.
Through the glass, I see her pacing, hands in her hair, jaw tight with concentration. And then I see Delilah.
Curled on the couch, knees drawn up, hair a dark spill against the cushion, fast asleep in a way that looks more like collapse than rest. One arm is tucked under her head, the other wrapped around her middle like she’s holding herself together in pieces. Even asleep, she looks tense. Like she went under by accident, not because she felt safe enough to let go.
Something sharp twists in my chest.
I push the door open hard enough that it slams against the wall.
Delilah jolts awake, eyes wild for half a second before recognition settles in. Larkin whirls on me instantly.
“She’s not mentally there anymore, Jon,” Larkin snaps, already gearing up for a fight. “She lashed out at another soldier, she’s dissociating, and you—”
The cigar slips from my fingers and hits the floor, rolling to a stop near Delilah’s boot.
I don’t look at it.
I look at her.
At the way she blinks sleep from her eyes and rolls them like I’m an inconvenience instead of a walking pressure point. The pain in my chest sharpens into something ugly. Into relief and fury and need tangled so tight I can’t tell one from the other anymore.
“Get out,” I say flatly, eyes still locked on Delilah.
Larkin scoffs. “This is my office.”
“Then go check on the prisoner,” I fire back, finally turning on her. “Because apparently you weren’t mentally there either if you let us drag in Seaborn’s second-in-command and forgot to mention they were joining the op at all.”
Her mouth opens, fury flashing across her face, but I don’t give her the chance to argue. I step closer, lowering my voice just enough to make the point land.
“Go.”
The room goes tense, stretched thin between us. Then, with a sharp glare, Larkin grabs her tablet and storms past me, muttering under her breath as she leaves.
