“Good thinking. As soon as we’re done here, I’ll ask Command for permission to call out.”
“Does Cian know?”
“Yeah, I told him the night we got back.”
“That explains his bad mood,” Trace deadpanned. “I was starting to think he was clairvoyant or something and could feel the mission coming down the pipe.”
“Nope, he’s kinda murdery about the whole thing.”
"Ha, I'll bet." Viper snorted. “Where’s your head, bro? You need to bench this one out?”
“I’ve carried this shit for a long time and on every mission,” he told them seriously. “This time, the contact is closer to spin up, and not giving you warning would be stupid and shitty. But I’m solid.”
“Good enough for me.” Trace pushed away from his chair, the legs scraping against the floor. He moved to the whiteboard and snatched a marker. “Alright. Change of subject. Let’s talk about how we’re gonna make this op hurt for these particular fuckers.”
The team shifted, the tension easing as they fell into mission mode. Now that he’d told them everything, he allowed himself to focus.
They knew and didn’t immediately boot my ass out the door.
Phew.
The planning session dragged on, details about load-outs and insertion points bouncing around the room. Reaper sat at the table, marker in hand, determined to ignore the insistent pull in his chest. He'd been in rooms like this too many times to count for more than a decade, so why this time did it feel like something wasmissing?
“Reaper?” Trace’s voice snapped him back. “Got feedback on the comms tech?”
Reaper blinked, forcing his thoughts into order. “Yeah. Solid. Should hold in adverse weather.”
Trace studied him, his gaze too knowing and waytoo perceptive for his liking. When the others filtered out of the room, he lingered, waiting until the room was empty before jerking his chin toward the hallway. “Come on.”
Reaper followed him, unsure what Trace had to say, but hopefully it was some nugget of wisdom about Cian and not more questions about Derek the asshole.
Trace let him down the corridor, stopping outside the doors and cocking his head to one side as if he or Bran were listening. The fourth door he opened and waved him into the room, then leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp gaze never leaving Reaper’s face. “You good?”
The question was casual, but Reaper heard the layers beneath it.
Am I good about what?
“Umm. Peachy.”
Trace didn’t buy it. Of course, he didn’t. The man had a nose for bullshit sharper than his wolf had for blood. “You have a weird feeling here?” Trace rubbed the spot over where Reaper knew the shifter’s mating mark was.
Reaper let out a breath of relief. He was asking about the ache that had taken root in his chest the moment they’d stepped away from Cian. The one that made every breath feel like it was harder and harder to take, and not about the memories and shit he’d thrown out into the open in the team room.
Reaper exhaled through his nose, his fingers flexing against his thigh. “Yeah. What is that shit, man?”
“You’re thinking about him.” Trace grinned. “And he’s thinking of you. Think of it as your comms link to Cian.”
Reaper’s jaw tightened. He was so tempted to lie, and he knew he could deflect with the best of them. But Trace would see right through it, just like he always did. So he stayed silent, staring at a chip in the paint on the wall like it was a Van fucking Gogh.
Trace scrubbed a hand down his face. “Look, I get it. Leaving your Grá Croí behind?” He shook his head, a flicker of something raw passing over his features—a memory, maybe, or the ghost of his own bond with Juice. “That’s not easy. But you’ve got a job to do.”
Reaper’s molars ground together.
I know.
But we argued so horribly just before I left, and damn, I know I pissed him off.
He did know. Duty always came first. Always. But knowing didn’t make the pull under his sternum any less insistent, didn’t stop the phantom warmth of Cian’s hands from lingering on his skin, or the niggling voice in the back of his head that reminded him Cian was not Derek.
