Chapter 3
PATCH’S CABIN – SOMEWHERE ON THE LOUISIANA BAYOU OUTSIDE OF MAMBALOA
Savvy glided her fingers through her damp hair and stared out at the murky water.
She’d been to a lot of places in her life.
Traveled all over the globe and had her boots tramping through some nasty habitats.
But she’d never once set foot in a bayou.
She’d gone on an airboat ride in the Everglades once.
However, this little piece of Louisiana was a bit different from the open waters her tour guide had taken her and her sister on during their spring break of senior year in high school.
This was damp and thick with low-hanging cypress trees that melted into the black water. She squinted as she scanned the surface for signs of movement. Or maybe tiny little eyes attached to massive heads ready to lurch from the water and eat her for lunch.
The air smelled like river mud, old pine, and faint smoke.
Savvy stepped up onto the rickety porch and hesitated at the screen door.
The house was a one-story, weather-beaten structure that looked as though it might collapse during the next strong storm.
The boards creaked under her boots, warped from years of humidity and disuse.
A single rocking chair sat off to the left, its paint chipped down to the wood.
She could hear cicadas humming in the trees and water lapping softly beneath the dock on the far side of the house.
The place was barely standing.
But it was also oddly… peaceful, as if the last few days had been magically erased and replaced with a fairy tale.
She pushed open the screen door and stepped inside.
The interior was exactly what she expected—plain, rustic, and no-nonsense.
A small kitchen bled into a living room cluttered with tactical gear.
A rucksack slumped in the corner, boots by the door, a field knife on the coffee table beside a half-drained bottle of bourbon.
The scratched-up leather couch looked like it had been rescued from someone’s garage, and the curtains were nothing but dark cloth hung over tension rods.
Still, the place had running water. She’d seen him wash his hands.
The kitchen faucet squeaked but worked. A hot shower had been offered—and it had delivered, albeit with rust-orange water and a pressure that felt like a strong exhale.
Civilization clung to this house by a thread, but it was here.
It whispered in the shadows. A tiny echo, but it grounded those who dared to teeter on the edge.
Savvy’s gaze tracked to the man standing at the stove, his back to her.
Patch. The same Patch who fed her chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne while wearing a plush terry-cloth robe in one of the finest hotels. She guessed those days were long gone—and part of her understood why.
He wore a dark-gray T-shirt, sleeves rolled to his biceps, faded cargo pants tucked into combat boots.
His posture was tense, shoulders pulled tight as he poured coffee into an old tin mug.
He hadn’t noticed her yet—or maybe he had and didn’t feel like talking.
That made more sense. He’d always been the kind of man who could stay in quiet spaces for an uncomfortably long time.
It had driven her insane when they’d been a couple.
While she enjoyed the peacefulness of a leisurely stroll on the beach, she still preferred to converse with her lover and best friend at the same time.
She hated to admit how much she’d missed Patch. His tender touch. His deep laugh. His stupid jokes.
His hair was longer now. It brushed the back of his neck, the ends sun-lightened and curled slightly from the humidity. He used to keep it regulation short, always freshly clipped. Clean-shaven. Razor-sharp.
Now? He looked wild. Not in a chaotic way—more like someone who had stopped giving a damn about anything that didn’t help him survive.
She lingered in the space between the kitchen and the family room, watching him move. “You’ve changed.”
His hand froze mid-pour. He glanced over his shoulder at her, brows lifting. “Yeah?”
She stepped in, arms crossed over her chest. “You used to hate it when your face got scruffy. Or if your hair tickled the back of your neck. You cared about clean lines, pressed shirts, hot breakfasts, and room service. I recall you melting over five-star coffee and those little chocolate mints on your pillow.”
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “That was a long time ago.” He poured another cup. She noticed the small twitch in his jaw. Something passed through his eyes—something quiet and pained. “Lots of things have changed since…” he said, but his voice faded out. He didn’t finish the thought.
Savvy didn’t press—she didn’t have to—she knew exactly where his mind had traveled, and it wasn’t a pleasant thought.
Instead, she crossed the kitchen slowly, heels soft on the aged wood, and accepted the mug he offered without a word.
She took a sip. It was strong and a little burnt.
It tasted better than anything she’d had in weeks.
They stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between them like a familiar old blanket—comfortable but heavy.
“I was sorry to hear about Hannah,” she finally said.
His body went still. Too still. He palmed his mug and stared into it as if it had answers no one else had.
His eyes filled with the kind of sorrow even she didn’t understand…
and she understood death. She comprehended what it meant to disappear.
To be dead to the world and to never look back.
But what she didn’t know was what it was like to lose everything she held dear.
Her brother and sister were still pumping blood through their systems. Sure, Drew barely spoke to Savvy, if at all. But Savvy was used to that bullshit.
“I wish I could’ve come to the funeral,” Savvy said softly.
Patch set his cup down without looking at her. His shoulders stayed squared, rigid with tension. But his silence wasn’t cold. It was restrained. Controlled. She was used to that from Patch. The quiet medic who didn’t feel emotion. Honestly, it was why they’d bonded so quickly.
And perhaps it was why they were both so quick to let it all fade away, as if what they felt for each other wasn’t as important as everything else in their life.
He understood her in ways no one else did.
He knew she needed to tuck the emotion rustling beneath the surface deep inside.
To push it to the furthest part of her where no one could find it.
He did the same thing. Those feelings were useless to her in the field.
They might serve a purpose to the victims. To the people she sought justice for.
But for her? The trained CIA operative?
They were meaningless.
And to Patch, the medic who stitched up military personnel who were half-dead in the field?
Well, those emotions only served to bring him down and make his job impossible.
He couldn’t look at those people as anything but machines who needed to be rebuilt.
If he’d looked at them as humans who were flesh and blood with lives back home—he’d crumble simply because for as many lives as he saved… the same number, or more, died.
But she’d known the second he was alone after dealing with a bloody battlefield, he’d curl up in a dark corner and weep like a baby for all the souls he couldn’t save… and all the souls that would be forever broken.
“I knew you couldn’t,” he whispered. “I got your note, and the flower arrangement was beautiful. Hannah would have loved them.”
“You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone,” she said, even softer.
He turned then, slowly, and their eyes met.
His were the same warm hazel they’d always been but dulled somehow. Burned out at the edges. Like whatever had lit them before had been swallowed by something darker.
“No one could’ve changed the outcome,” he said quietly. “Not even me, and I tried like fucking hell.”
“Doesn’t mean you should’ve carried it by yourself.” She paused momentarily, wondering if she should tell him what she’d done. Perhaps he knew. Or suspected. If the tables were turned, she figured he’d do the same. They didn’t end things because of a fight or because they didn’t care.
Things ended because they didn’t know how to be anything other than their jobs.
“I’ve been trying to get a line on the shooter,” she said. “It’s like he’s a ghost. But I put some resources on it.”
Patch nodded. “I’ve called in a few favors, but we’ve come up empty. Whoever came in and shot up that store disappeared. Makes me believe it wasn’t random. That there was a reason, and maybe that reason was me.”
“I pulled your record and ran enemies. Couldn’t find a connection, but I haven’t stopped looking.”
He tapped his finger in the center of his chest and took a step closer.
She didn’t move.
Not when his gaze dropped to her mouth. Not when the space between them thinned to inches. Not when her heart started beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Five years.
Five years of silence. Of unresolved what-ifs. Of nights she’d pretended not to think about him.
He reached out—slowly—and brushed a damp strand of hair off her cheek. His fingers were warm, calloused, careful.
Their breath mingled as he took the coffee mug from her fingers and set it aside. He tilted her chin with his thumb and forefinger. Her lips parted as if to welcome him home.
He leaned closer. His mouth so close she could taste the coffee on his breath.
“Really?” a familiar voice scoffed. The word cracked through the air like a whip.
Savvy jerked back a step. Patch’s hand dropped. Both turned to find McGuire standing in the front doorway, arms crossed, expression somewhere between irritation, disappointment, and amusement.