Too many feelings.
Too little space.
Too much blood still drying on all of us for any of it to make sense.
We’re almost to the transport when I hear it.
“Delilah!” My name cuts through everything making me freeze.
My parents push past a line of security, my mother’s heels abandoned somewhere back inside, her hair falling loose around her face, eyes wild with relief and terror. My dad is right behindher, jaw tight, hands clenched like he’s still deciding whether to hug me or yell.
Probably both.
“Oh my God,” my mom breathes, grabbing my face in both hands before I can even brace for it. Her palms are warm and trembling. “You’re bleeding—are you hurt—are you—”
“I’m okay,” I say quickly, because if I don’t say it fast enough, she’ll hear all the places where I’m lying. “I promise. It’s not mine.”
Mostly. The ache in my body argues with that. The split in my lip argues with that. The rawness in my chest definitely argues with that.
She pulls me into a hug so tight it steals my breath, and for a second I let myself be her daughter instead of a soldier. I let my eyes close. I let my forehead fall against her shoulder. I let the smell of her perfume and smoke and sweat tell me she’s real and here and alive.
My dad stops a few feet away.
He just stares.
At the uniform hidden under borrowed pieces.
At the gun.
At the exhaustion carved into my face.
At the fact that every suspicion he had a half hour ago has now been drowned in blood and gunfire and can’t be smoothed over into misunderstanding anymore.
“Come home,” he says finally. “With us. Tonight.”
I pull back from my mother and blink at him. “Dad, I—”
“No,” he cuts in. “Not the base. Not another debrief. Our house. We need time. We need answers.”
I hesitate.
Jon steps closer. “Will, right now she should stay—”
My dad spins on him instantly. “How long?” He snaps.
Jon blinks once. “Excuse me?”
“How long have you been lying to me?” My dad demands. “How long has she been in this? Months? Years?”
“Dad—” I try.
“When did it start?” He presses, anger spilling over the top of control. “When did you recruit her? When did you decide my daughter was expendable?”
Jon’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait the way I can feel King wanting him to. “She was never expendable.”
“Then when did you start liking her?” My dad fires back. “Before or after you put her in combat?”
The words land like punches.
