I swallow, the cigar burning forgotten between my fingers, and meet his gaze. “Always,” I say, and this time it’s not a lie.
Because I have. Because I do. Because that has become the problem.
He nods once, satisfied, then opens the door and leaves, his footsteps fading down the hall.
I stand there long after he’s gone, smoke curling around me, the weight of his trust settling squarely on my shoulders, heavier now than it’s ever been.
Chapter 17
Delilah Barrinheart
I stay in my room long after there’s no reason to hide.
Two days since my dad left. Two days since the base slipped back into its normal rhythm, boots on concrete and radios crackling like nothing inside me is still splintered. Two days since I told myself I’d step out tomorrow, then tomorrow again, until the word loses meaning and the silence starts to feel like something alive.
My quarters are small enough that I can touch three walls without moving my feet. The bed is too narrow, the ceiling too low, and every night I wake up tangled in sheets, heart racing, lungs burning like I’ve been running instead of sleeping. The nightmares don’t bother easing me into them. They drop me straight back into metal and darkness and hands I can’t see, voices I can’t place, the echo of my own breathing bouncing off walls that don’t care if I’m afraid. Sometimes it’s the cell. Sometimes it’s the corridor outside it. Sometimes it’s just the feeling—helpless and pinned and watched.
You’re safe, I tell myself over and over, pressing my palm flat to my chest like I can hold my heart still. You’re here. You’re fine. You’re not there anymore.
My body doesn’t listen.
I’ve already talked to my dad. I answered the call because avoiding it would’ve made it worse, because I’m tired of running from people who love me. He talked about the party like it was something solid and good, like it might anchor me back to a version of myself that still fits in a dress and smiles on cue. He sounded hopeful in that careful way he gets when he thinks he’s being subtle, like if he keeps his voice light enough I won’t hear the wanting underneath it. I told him I’d think about it, which was the nicest lie I could manage.
For once in my life, I’m dreading it.
The quiet presses in until it feels like I’m breathing through cotton, so when the base finally settles into its late-night hush, I pull on my jacket and slip out before I can talk myself out of it. I don’t tell anyone where I’m going. I don’t need permission for this. I’m not about to start asking for it now.
The shooting range smells like oil and cold air, familiar enough that my shoulders loosen the second I step inside. The overhead lights are dimmer this late, leaving most of the space in shadow except for the lanes and the dull metallic shine of the benches. This is supposed to help. This is supposed to be normal. I load the magazine with practiced ease, line up my stance, and lift the weapon like it’s an extension of my arm instead of something heavy and loud and unforgiving.
The first shot goes wide.
I frown, adjust, try again.
Wide.
Again.
The crack of the gunshot ricochets off the walls, too sharp, too close, and suddenly the sound isn’t here anymore. It’severywhere else. My vision tunnels, flashes of dim light and restraints and the way my hands shook no matter how hard I tried to control them. The recoil bites into my shoulder and my brain turns it into something else entirely. Something ugly. Something I don’t want to name.
I fire again.
Miss.
My grip tightens until my knuckles ache, and my breathing turns shallow without me noticing. Every shot rings like a bell inside my skull, each one dragging something ugly to the surface. I don’t stop. I can’t. If I stop, I’ll have to feel it. If I stop, I’ll hear myself thinking again.
“Delilah.”
The voice comes from behind me, low and calm, and I almost drop the gun out of sheer shock. Hands settle over mine before I can react, large and steady, grounding me in a way that makes my breath hitch. Familiar weight. Familiar heat. Familiar danger.
“Easy,” Jon says, a cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth like this is the most normal thing in the world. Smoke curls lazily between us. “You’re spiraling.”
I swallow hard, nodding even though my chest feels too tight to move. He adjusts my grip, shifts my stance with a touch that’s all instruction and no pressure, his presence solid at my back. His hand at my wrist is firm without being forceful. The other rests at my elbow, guiding instead of controlling. It should feel clinical. It doesn’t.
“In through your nose,” he murmurs. “Out through your mouth. Slow. You’re here.”
I follow his lead because I always do, because my body recognizes him as something safe even when my mind is still clawing its way back. The next breath goes a little deeper. Theone after that doesn’t burn as much. The range starts to feel like the range again instead of a tunnel toward somewhere worse.
“What’re you doing out here so late?” he asks quietly.
