“Watch me.”
A horn honks outside, startling me.
“That’ll be Roman,” he mutters. “With the lockdown.”
The five of us move as a unit to the front window as an absolutely ridiculous vehicle is parking outside. It looks as though someone crossed an RV with a tank. It’s matte black, has tinted windows, and is probably even bulletproof.
“That’s not what we agreed to,” Valen mutters under his breath.
“You’re really going to live in that?” I ask. This entire day is giving me emotional whiplash, but I can’t fight a smile when he rolls his eyes.
“Until this is over. Yes.” He’s not asking for permission, and I’m too tired to fight it. I’m not even sure I want to. “Until we find out who’s messing with our past and destroy them, I’ll be your shadow.”
“Valen—”
“It’s not negotiable, Honeybee.” He holds my upper arm, his grip steady and warm, and it’s a good thing because my brain isn’t ready for the reintroduction of the one name that always made me feel safe.
He called me Honeybee. Again.
“I guess there are some things even memory loss won’t allow me to forget.” He lowers his head until our foreheads are nearly touching. It’s savagely intimate. “And if you’re one of those things, I will figure out why.”
Our peanut gallery makes varying sounds of drama, but me?
I stare at this man—this stranger who will never be a stranger to me—who’s parked a tank on my front lawn because he read in a childhood journal that he wanted to protect me once—and I smile.
He doesn’t remember me, but he’s choosing me anyway.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His eyes widen slightly. “Okay?”
“You can stay.” I take a fortifying breath. “But only if you let me help. I can tell you who we were. Let me—” My voice breaks, but there’s not a stinking thing I can do about it. “Let me give you back the pieces someone took away.”
His expression softens, the frown lines easing into a gentle smile. “Deal.”
For the first time in fourteen years, I let myself hope.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Because maybe—just maybe—some things really do run deeper than a memory.
CHAPTER SIX
VALEN
The military-grade lockdown vehicle Roman delivered turns out to be a glorified RV that someone painted black, then bolted enough steel plates to it that it now looks like Batman’s summer home. It’s not what I asked him to bring.
“This is ridiculous.” The monstrosity takes up Clover’s entire driveway. I can already envision the complaints from the fucking text tree. “This thing makes me look like the guy fromNational Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.”
My cousin’s laughter barks against the excessive amount of exposed steel.
“This is tactical,” Roman corrects, grinning as though he won the lottery. “Bulletproof windows. Reinforced door. Satellite communication. Solar panels. Water filtration system. You could survive the apocalypse in this thing.” He’s so excited, I’m almost worried for him.
“Or,” I say dryly, “you could’ve just told Grant to send the fucking Stinger like I asked.”
The fucking Stinger.
