“Never talk to her that way again.” Trace shoves harder against Cole’s throat, punctuating his point. “She’s suffered enough.”
The thick concentration of testosterone clots the air and locks my joints. Though I’ve seen Trace attack a man once before, I’m immobilized by the calmness in his movements. He strikes, neutralizes, and commands, without showing a single sign of being winded or agitated.
Cole grips the fist around his throat and closes his eyes. His body slumps, and an anguished sound escapes him.
“I’m so sorry, Danni,” he whispers, seeking me with unguarded misery in his gaze.
I share that feeling deeply, because despite the lies and unanswered questions, I love him. But that doesn’t mean I can walk away from Trace.
When I nod my acceptance of Cole’s apology, Trace releases him and steps back.
Cole sags against the wall, tucking his chin and gripping his knees. I’ve never seen him look so defeated and shattered.
The instinct to go to him urges my legs to move, but I fight it. I can’t choose sides until I’ve heard the truth. Not that I’m capable of choosing. My heart wants both. But my damn heart got me into this mess. I need to use my brain to find a way out.
Trace hands me a mug of coffee from the dresser and kisses the top of my head.
“Thank you.” I turn to Cole and gesture at the other two mugs. “He brought you a cup.”
As Trace steps into the closet and pulls on a t-shirt, Cole trudges toward the dresser and stares at the mugs with a slack expression.
“I can’t drink coffee,” he says, lifting it to his lips, “without thinking about the morning we met.”
My smile trembles, and my insides cave in. Will this ever stop hurting? I can’t see how. There’s no resolution that brings both of them happiness, and that’s what I need. I need them to be happy again.
Dressed in a collared shirt and jeans, Trace emerges from the closet and sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his spread knees, head tilted down. I can’t see his face, but I know those glacial eyes are angled toward Cole, scowling as intensely as his mouth beneath the mantle of his brow.
My bedroom isn’t big enough for the three of us, and as the seconds tick by, the space grows smaller, tighter, pressing against my chest. Unbidden, my foot taps, drawing attention to my churning nerves.
We should move into the living room or somewhere with more space. But there isn’t a room in my house large enough to contain this.
I kick off my fuzzy slippers and climb onto the bed. With my back against the headboard, I chew my thumbnail, fidget with the pull strings on my hoodie, sip the coffee, and wait for someone to speak.
The silence endures.
Awkward, pregnant, miserable goddamn silence.
I draw a steeling breath and search Cole’s eyes. “What are you going to do, Cole?”
“I’m going to fight for you.” His jaw flexes, and he sets down the mug.
“Fight for me? All I see is you glaring at your colleague, best friend, or whatever Trace is to you. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in the fucking dark without a clue as to where you’ve been or what you do for a living.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “I can’t tell you, Danni.” A tortured whisper.
My blood heats. “I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do.” He sucks in a harsh breath and slams a fist against his palm. “You know me better than anyone.”
“I don’t even recognize you.”
Where are his tattoos? And he always kept his brown hair clipped high and tight. Now it’s long enough to run my fingers through, at least an inch around his ears and thicker on top. His jawline’s still square, but narrower. His entire face seems drawn, emaciated, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones. He’s a beautiful man, even now, but he looks so different. Unhealthy.
“You look like shit,” Trace mutters. “Does anyone know you’re stateside?”
“Just my handler.” Cole meets his eyes. “I assume the house is clean?”
“Spotless,” Trace says.
What the hell?
“You’re obviously not talking about housekeeping.” I gesture at the dirty laundry all over the floor. “What does spotless mean?”
They continue to glare at each other. But this is more than a silent sparring match. They’re sharing some kind of a wordless conversation I’m not privy to.
I was being watched. Everything I did was monitored, tracked, and recorded.
Is the house clean?
“Does your job put me in danger?” A chill drips down my spine as I think about how careless I’ve been with my safety. “Is that why you’re both always on me about locking my doors? And what do you mean by is the house clean? Is there a chance it was bugged?”
“Locking your doors is common sense.” Trace glances at me over his shoulder, his expression stone-cold. “And no. No one knows about your connection to Cole.”
“Except my handler.” Cole relentlessly rakes a hand through his hair. “He’s the man who came here three years ago.”
“Robert Wright.” My neck goes taut against the memory. “He’s the one who told me you were dead.”
“Not his real name, but yes.” Cole looks at Trace. “He’s the only person who has access to my whereabouts.”
“Can you trust him?” I wrap an arm around my waist, hating the paranoid thoughts they’re putting in my head.
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you about his visit with me?” My voice croaks as I relive the gutting horror of that day.
I don’t hear the door shut, don’t feel the couch beneath me, don’t taste the tears flooding my face. The agony is all-consuming, crippling my body, twisting me into something unrecognizable, and spiraling me into a shapeless, hopeless place.
“No. He wouldn’t tell me anything about you.” Cole inhales deeply. “He thought it was best that I focus on staying alive.”
Cole was in danger. Life-threatening danger that forced him into hiding, and I had no idea.
“Before you left, I specifically asked if your safety was a concern, and you laughed at me when you told me no.”
He stares at his feet, unable to meet my eyes.
“Were you even in Iraq?” I ask.
The liar pins his lying lips and doesn’t look at me. Maybe Trace can shed some light.
“You said you used to work together?” I wave a hand between them. “Is that how you became best friends?”
“Yes.” Trace slides a knee onto the mattress as he shifts to face me. “I used to be his handler.”
“You keep using that term.” I finish off the coffee and set the mug on the nightstand. “I don’t know what handler means, because I don’t know what Cole does for a living.”
“I’m bound by the same secrecy agreement as Cole, but I’ll try to explain…” Trace strokes his chin, as if carefully choosing his words. “Here’s an analogy. The handler of a weapon controls how the weapon approaches a target and decides when and where to aim.”
A weapon. He said it was an analogy, but he chose that example for a reason. He wants me to understand the severity of Cole’s job.
“Okay, so you were Cole’s handler, and you called the shots.” I study Trace’s unreadable expression. “And Cole is what? Some kind of assassin?”