“What happened?”
Bryson’s eyes flickered, and Adria watched as a wall formed between them.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he joked with a small smile.
Adria frowned. “You almost died. Collapsed lung, stab wound dangerously close to an artery…It’s amazing you were able to close it so quickly. You are lucky to be alive.”
“How did we get there?” Bryson’s question was not accusatory. It wasn’t angry. It was just a question.
But that didn’t change the heaviness that settled on her as he spoke it.
She shook her head, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “I don’t know. Frances is dead. Regan, no doubt. Obviously, Jonathan was behind the whole thing, but?—”
“He wasn’t acting alone,” Bryson said.
Adria took in a breath. “I don’t think so either. If it was about revenge, he would have acted sooner. Not waited until I found out.”
“Any ideas on potential players involved?” Bryson asked.
Your father.
Adria didn’t say it.
Couldn’t.
But she suspected Callen. In fact, he was at the top of her list.
The words formed in her throat, then died there. She knew telling him might protect him—or destroy him completely.
“Maybe someone in the Nine, trying to make a play for my seat,” she said, and Bryson was quiet.
Adria wanted to talk to him. Wanted to say more. Wanted to curl against his chest and forget the world outside this bed. But she also needed him to rest, and she didn’t want to push him. After a few minutes of silence, she heard his breathing deepen and knew he was asleep.
Adria stared into the darkness, spinning her father’s ring along her finger, and listened to Bryson breathe.
She tried to think about things in a linear step-by-step fashion. But nothing was black and white anymore, and her mind swirled with all the what-ifs.
CHAPTER 14
NEW YORK
Bryson woke up with sweat clinging to his skin and heat pulsing under his skull. He rolled onto his side, flexed his legs—and froze. His limbs stretched out freely beneath him. This wasn’t a cell.
Panic fluttered in his chest as memories fractured back into place: a safe house. Adria and Seth lay curled nearby, their breathing even and untroubled. He lifted his head—sensation spiking in his ribs—and saw Eric stretched out, one mattress over.
Pain jabbed at him when he sat up too fast.
Bryson rolled his shoulders. The soreness ran deep. It felt raw and ragged but no longer urgent.
Glancing down, he saw the fresh bandages on his chest, and the tube was no longer there. The I.V. line from earlier was gone. A brown wrap coiled around his leg like a serpent.
He rose unsteadily and shuffled into the adjoining room. Kaydon sat on the couch, back to him, fingernails scraping at the inside of his forearm. The motion was frantic, almost violent.
Bryson stepped forward, and Kaydon spun, eyes widening with relief. “Hey, boss.”
Bryson settled beside him. Every movement throbbed, but he reached out, took Kaydon’s wrist, and gently pried the scratching hand away. He leaned into Kaydon, wrapping his arm around his broad shoulders. For a moment, the world stilled.
“Some life we’ve got,” he whispered. He felt Kaydon’s chuckle, low and comforting against him.
