I don’t remember anything. Just the floor giving out beneath me.
I unbutton his shirt, and he stops breathing. I move anyway, toweling over his shoulders and chest. My fingers drift higher—and that’s when I see the numbers again.
He looks down at my hand poised on his arm. “Coordinates,” he says, voice dropping. “Where everything changed forever.”
“What you said outside?—”
He lifts his head, finally looking at me. “Yeah.”
I open my mouth, then shut it, breathing for a long moment. The storm is like a memory now, evening sunlight piercing through the window.
His eyes flick to it. I’m half afraid he’ll use it as an excuse to leave.
My heart races as I admit, “I thought that might be it.”
“Sloane.” His hand comes up, gripping my wrist, thumb rubbing the pulse point. “I never wanted to take that from you… the memory of your brother.”
“But he changed after…” My voice trails off. After what, I don’t know. “I felt the shift, too.”
He nods once.
My forehead knits. “Tell me what else you know.”
“Not much,” he murmurs.
“I’m stronger than you think,” I counter.
“I don’t doubt that,” he says, thumb stilling. “But why choose something that’ll keep you up at night?”
“Because it’s true,” I say, pressing my lips together.
The words come slow after that, each one weighted, filled with too much meaning for me to grasp in one hearing.
“He was working something off-books.” Rhys stares at his hands like he’ll find the answers there. “Above my pay grade.”
It’s what I didn’t want to hear. And what I suspected. Because this man doesn’t fit the other narrative. But the changes in my brother, the details missing from his record, do.
“There’s more,” I whisper.
He nods, eyes conflicted. “There’s always more.”
“Rhys.”
He gives me a rueful look, then casts his gaze to the floor. “That’s all I’ve got.”
A tear slides past my lower lashes. I bite my bottom lip, working to get my voice under control.
“And the scar?” My hand stills. This isn’t from one bad day.
“You’re not here for me.”
I don’t argue. Just wait.
Slowly, tentatively, my fingers drift to the thin, silvery lines. I follow them with my fingertips down his face, his neck, onto his chest and the First Recon ink over his heart. His eyes close, his breath stalling.
“The Jeep,” he says. He stays perfectly still.
“Not now.”
