“Call Gemma Proctor.”
A repetitive beep, but no answer. When it ceased ringing out, he tried her again. He’d promised he’d be there when she neededhim, and he hadn’t answered. What if something had happened? What if he was too late?
“Hello?” she answered at last, and an audible sigh of relief left him.
“Hey, love. Sorry I missed your call. You all right?”
She murmured something incoherent, and there was a ruffling of blankets. She’d been asleep, and he’d woken her. Stars, he was two for two.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” she mumbled as if her face were in a pillow.
The tension in his neck released. “All right, you go back to sleep. I’m on grave shift, so I’ll be lying down here soon, but I’ll call you when I’m up.”
“M’kay. Lovnyou.”
He smiled at her half-awake inability to form coherent words. “Love you too.”
Shutting his eyes, he took a deep breath. At least Gemma was safe. And still herself. He could breathe a little easier.
But just a little. He still had to face his teammates.
In the breakroom, Lysa sat curled into an armchair, a blanket wrapped around her small frame. She looked exhausted but alert, watching the room like a beast too used to danger to fully rest.
Hawk was at a table, nursing a drink, while Imara lounged on the floor with her legs stretched out, chewing what looked like jerky with dramatic disinterest. Next to her was the drone she was learning to pilot, like a pet curled against her while it slept. Claude and Yosef half-whispered over an electropad.
Here goes nothing.
The floor creaked when Christian stepped inside the room. Five sets of eyes shot in his direction, and the warning in them shifted to surprise as they took him in.
Lysa sat up straighter. “You’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Christian replied, his voice rough. He tried to smile but fell short.
“What happened?” Hawk asked, his brows lifted.
Christian exhaled and closed the door behind him. The click echoed. He moved to the nearest wall and leaned against it, his arms crossed. “My dad and sister were targeted by someone from my past. They’re safe now. That’s what matters.”
Lysa gave him a look of disbelief. “That’s seriously all you’re saying?”
His jaw tightened. He looked at the others. Their confusion wasn’t masked. Hawk stared quietly. Imara’s eyes had narrowed. Claude shifted position, his gaze shifting to his husband. They were trying to piece it together.
Christian sighed. If tonight had taught him anything, it was that he couldn’t hide behind his past anymore. The people he fought alongside deserved more respect than that. If roles were reversed, he’d want to know the truth. And if they chose to hate him for what he did . . . well, he deserved it.
“I used to be part of a group called the Falaichte,” he began. “Most people don’t know about them. They’re a black-market training syndicate of sorts. Real off-the-books. Real brutal.”
“You what?” Imara shouted, sitting up straighter. Of course she’d have heard of them. Her old clientele would’ve thrived on whispers like that.
He held up his hands. “I joined when I was a kid. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I thought it would help me survive the Trials, which was my mother’s dying wish.”
Lysa frowned, her eyes glassing over.
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Hawk asked.
“Because I didn’t want you to look at me like that,” he snapped, gesturing to Imara. He pinched the bridge of his nose when her nostrils flared. “Sorry. I just . . . couldn’t. I wanted to leave it buried.”
“But it’s not buried,” Lysa said, her voice quiet. “They came after you—after us.”
Christian sighed. “Yeah, they wanted revenge for me leaving. Cho—the one we captured—she was part of it. Still is. She’s the one that warned me that the Falaichte would use you and Dad as bait to get to me.”
