Chapter 23 #2
“What do you want, Mercier?” Rowan growled, turning slightly to put his back to the street, to shield Enya from any prying eyes. Not that it mattered after that kiss.
“Can’t a man check in on his favorite mercenary?” Mercier’s tone was light, but Rowan knew better. The fixer didn’t call just to chat.
“No.”
Mercier chuckled, “Fine. Business, then. Got a fresh contract across my desk this morning. High-priority extraction in a country ending with Stan, which I know you’ll love. Pay’s double your usual rate, and the client’s very motivated.”
Rowan’s grip tightened on the phone, his knuckles going white. He could feel Enya’s eyes on him, and could practically taste the question on her lips. But he couldn’t look at her, because if he did, he’d be tempted to take her back to The Stronghold, chain the gates shut, and stay there.
Mercier’s next words had something cold and familiar coiling in his gut. “It’s cartel-adjacent. Same players as the ones who fucked over Gael.”
The air left Rowan’s lungs in a slow, controlled breath.
Shit.
Those same players had also been the bastards he’d stolen Enya back from.
Those fuckers had changed everything, not only for his brother but for Enya, and ultimately him.
He finally looked at her. She was watching him with something like understanding dawning in her eyes.
As the reality of what Mercier was saying crashed over them both, he fucking hated to see the shutters come down as she retreated inside the shell she’d spent weeks crawling out of.
She belonged in a different world, one where men like Mercier didn’t exist, where contracts and cartels and bloodshed were just stories on the news, not things that could reach out and drag her back into hell.
Mercier kept talking, oblivious to the way Rowan’s pulse was hammering in his throat. “You in, or do I take this to Nemesis?”
Rowan couldn’t answer because the truth was, he didn’t know.
With Enya standing right there, close enough that he could still smell the vanilla on her skin, still feel the ghost of her touch on his waist, all he wanted to do was tell Gallus to fuck off and take him off the roster.
But he knew he couldn’t do that. His men, never mind his twin, would lose their shit so fast his head would spin.
Shove the contract up your ass.
He wanted to stay at home, in this town, in The Stronghold.
He wanted to stay in this moment, damn it, where the most dangerous thing was the way Enya was looking at him like she was trying to memorize his face.
But as the silence dragged, and Mercier’s next breath was heavy with expectation, and Rowan knew—knew—that if he walked away from this, if he turned his back on the life he’d built, the skills he’d honed, the man he’d become, he wouldn’t recognize himself anymore.
Fuck. Why now? Why?
Enya’s fingers twitched at her side, like she was fighting the urge to either reach for him or run away screaming. But she took a breath and nodded once, and mouthed. “Do it.”
Rowan closed his eyes. “Send the details,” he said, his voice rough. “I’ll look it over.”
Mercier’s chuckle was dark, satisfied. “Knew you’d see reason. Details in your inbox in five. And Rowan?”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re gonna be distracted, tell me now. Because the last thing I want to do is send you or one of your men home in a flag-covered box.” Gallus didn’t give him time to answer, and the line went dead.
Rowan lowered the phone slowly, his thumb hovering over the screen.
He’d consider shooting someone very fucking important if he could somehow undo the last two minutes.
The late afternoon air felt as if the world had tilted just enough to throw him off balance.
He glanced at Enya, immediately pissed off at how her shoulders had tensed, the way her jaw was set, the way her eyes, those beautiful, endless eyes, were searching his face for something he wasn’t sure he could give her.
Not yet.
Not when he didn’t even know what the hell he was doing.
“That was—” he started, but the words died in his throat. What was it? A mistake? A test? A fucking lifeline?
Enya crossed her arms, hugging herself like she was trying to hold in the heat they’d just generated. “Work?”
Rowan exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”
“Dangerous work.”
It wasn’t a question. She knew. Of course, she knew. She’d been right there in the thick of it. She was one of the few he went after to bring back. She knew, and he knew it. He rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles there tight as a piano wire about to snap. “Probably.”
She nodded, her gaze dropping to the ground between them.
A beat passed, and then another, filled with everything they weren’t saying.
He wanted to reach for her, to pull her back into his arms and pretend the fucking call had never rang.
But maybe it was better that she figured out now that taking these jobs was part of who he was.
It wasn’t in his genetic makeup to send his brother and his men out without him there to ensure they all came home alive.
Enya picked up the box of pies, slid into the seat of the truck, and placed them on her lap. “We should get going,” she said, her voice steady. “You’ll need to talk to the guys.”
Rowan swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”
The truck rumbled beneath them, the engine’s low growl the only sound between them as Rowan shifted gears and steered onto the winding backroad that led to Stronghold.
He slammed on the brakes to avoid a rabbit that bolted across the road at the last second.
“Stupid dick, watch where you’re fucking running, asshole. ”
Christ, even the damn rabbits are conspiring against me today.
He glanced at Enya out of the corner of his eye.
What’s she thinking?
He almost swerved off the road when her hand slid across the seat, her fingers lacing through his where it rested on the gearshift. The touch burned through him, searing as a brand, and his thumb moved over her knuckles before his brain could catch up.
The miles blurred past, the familiar landmarks of home doing jack shit to settle the storm inside him.
Enya’s thumb moved in slow, absent circles over the back of his hand.
His brain needed to quit stalling on how she was starting to mean more than she should.
Her touch grounded him even as he forced his mind to the contract waiting in his inbox, and to the men who’d rely on him to lead them into another hellscape.
I fucking love this.
I love that it’s almost as if she’s mine, I’m hers, and nothing else matters.
I should pull away. Should tell her this—whatever the hell this was—couldn’t happen. But then why did the thought of letting go feel like a blade between the ribs? He held on, because some truths were better left unspoken. At least for now.