Chapter 5
MIA
As I lead Zane to the kitchen, the first aid kit trembles in my hands, its metal edges clinking against my fingertips.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me for letting another military man into my space, for allowing someone like him—big, imposing, and clearly dangerous—to sit at my kitchen table.
And he has to be a military man if Damon sent him here.
They’re not all the same, I think to myself. But the nurse in me overrides the fear. Those cuts need cleaning, and he did just stop Jason from attacking my house.
“Did you say something?” Zane asks, almost as if he can hear my thoughts.
I quickly shake my head. He would think I’m insane.
“Can I see some ID first, though?” I ask. Damon didn’t tell me he was sending someone to my house tonight. In this guy’s defense, I wasn’t even supposed to know that he would be outside my home, keeping an eye on me. I know Damon is only looking out for me, but a shiver runs down my spine.
Zane doesn’t protest. He pulls out his ID out of his wallet. His name and details are printed on the Mars Security badge.
I breathe out, handing the ID back to him.
His hair is shorn close to his scalp, the kind of cut that screams discipline.
He’s as tall as Damon but broader somehow, his shoulders filling the space like they belong there.
And that scar—God, the scar—runs jagged down his face, curving around his cheekbone and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. What happened there?
I clear my throat, setting the kit on the counter and gesturing for him to sit. He lowers himself into one of the wooden chairs. It creaks under his weight, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“This might sting,” I warn, pulling out a bottle of antiseptic and some gauze.
I force myself to meet his eyes. They’re a sharp, piercing blue, as cold as steel and just as unyielding.
He doesn’t flinch when I press the gauze to the scrape along his jaw, but the slight tightening around his eyes gives him away. I keep working, focusing on the rhythm of cleaning and dabbing, anything to keep my hands steady.
Most people would look away by now. Most people wouldn’t know what to do with a man like this, sitting in their kitchen. But I don’t flinch, and that seems to catch him off guard.
“You’re not afraid of me.” It’s not a question. His voice is low and rough, cutting through the silence like a blade.
I pause, glancing up at him. “Should I be?”
His lips twitch just a fraction, like he’s debating whether to smile or smirk. “Most people are. The scar usually does the trick.”
I shrug, keeping my hands moving. “I’ve seen worse.” It’s not entirely true, but it’s close enough. Working in an ER has shown me more injuries than I ever wanted to see.
He watches me, his gaze unrelenting, and I wonder what he’s looking for. An answer? A weakness?
“What happened?” I ask softly, nodding toward the scar. The question slips out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t answer right away, his expression unreadable. “Occupational hazard,” he says finally, his tone flat like he’s rehearsed that line a hundred times.
I don’t push. I’ve learned not to press people who don’t want to talk, and Zane looks like the kind of man who doesn’t talk unless he absolutely has to.
Instead, I focus on the scrape, wrapping it carefully with a clean bandage.
His skin is warm under my fingers, his jawline rough with stubble.
I work quickly and methodically, pretending not to notice how close we are.
The faint scent of his cologne reaches me—a subtle mix of cedar and something darker, earthier.
It pulls me back to a time when I thought life could still hold sparks of excitement, of desire.
The warmth of his presence so close to mine stirs something deep inside me, a feeling I haven’t allowed myself to experience in years.
My heart stumbles over itself, skipping a beat, as I realize just how little space separates us.
Zane doesn’t pull away. His guarded expression softens just a fraction, but it’s enough to shift the air between us.
There’s something in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or maybe recognition of the same flicker of attraction I’m trying to ignore.
Whatever it is, it feels tangible. A thread stretched taut between us, threatening to snap.
I feel myself shift. His gaze on me isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s definitely intense, making my belly heat. And the feeling gets worse when it drops down to his full lips, the lip stud at the edge of his mouth. I wonder what it would feel like to wrap my tongue around it.
Shit.
Heat rushes to my face, and I focus on the first aid kit like it’s the most important task in the world. I snap the kit shut with more force than necessary, stepping back to put some much-needed distance between us. My throat feels dry, but I manage to clear it.
“All done,” I say, stepping back. “Try to keep it clean.”
He stands, towering over me again, and nods. “Thanks.”
Even though I’m done, there’s a restless energy in the air, like he’s waiting for the right moment to do or say something. I move to pack up the first aid kit, but his voice stops me.
“What kind of threats has Jason been making?” he asks.
I glance at him, surprised. “You probably know the type. Watching me, showing up at places he shouldn’t. The messages are always vague. Just enough to make sure I know he’s there, that he’s not going anywhere.”
Zane’s jaw tightens. “Stalking. Intimidation.”
“Psychological warfare,” I correct softly, avoiding his piercing gaze. “He’s good at it.”
“I wish I could’ve done worse to the bastard,” Zane mutters, his voice low and rough. His words carry a sharp edge, almost too sharp for someone who doesn’t know me, doesn’t know my life.
Unlike Damon, whose calm, calculated demeanor seems to mask whatever emotions he keeps locked away, Zane’s hatred for Jason feels raw, palpable.
It hangs in the room like smoke, and it makes me pause.
Why would he care this much? Why would he feel this protective of me already?
He doesn’t even know me or my girls yet.
With Damon, it’s different, but for Zane, it seems almost just as personal.
“You knew Jason.” The words spill out before I can stop them.
Zane freezes, his expression going stony. It’s the kind of reaction I’ve seen before in myself and in others who’ve survived their own private wars. That particular blend of hatred and guilt—it’s unmistakable.
“We served together,” he says finally, his voice flat and cold. “Until he betrayed our unit and got three men killed in Kandahar.”
My hands freeze where they’re smoothing down the edge of the bandage on his knuckles. The room feels suddenly too small, too quiet.
“Kandahar,” I repeat.
The name conjures up images I don’t want to see—dusty landscapes, desperate faces, a place I only know from Jason’s stories. Stories that now, I realize, were carefully crafted lies meant to paint him as the hero instead of the villain.
Jason had mentioned something about it to me, though obviously nothing about what he had done. He would never expose himself, let alone admit to ever being wrong about anything. He convinced me that he would do anything for me, buy me anything I wanted.
“That son of a bitch wasn’t just running guns... he was skimming off the top. Stealing from every damn deal our unit brokered with local contractors. Selling intel on troop movements to the highest bidder. He sold us out to the highest bidder.”
Two weeks before I left, he had bought me a rare emerald ring.
I never questioned him on how he could afford it.
Questions would always lead to hurt—a bruised eye, a broken finger.
I had learned better than to ask him questions.
But he had been deployed in Kandahar for six months before he came back to base abruptly.
That was a few days before I found out I was pregnant.
The emerald gave me the courage to finally make a run for it.
Jason couldn’t accuse me of theft, and now I realize why. He knew he wasn’t supposed to have the ring. I sold it off to get money—a lot of it—and finally get out of his reach.
All of that feels like a lifetime ago.
Now I finally have the answers. I should have known he was up to illegal dealings.
“You were there,” I murmur, piecing it together. “When... when it all happened.”
He nods once, his jaw clenching. “I trusted him. We all did. And then he started running drugs through our supply routes, using our missions as cover. The ambush...” His voice falters for a moment, a crack in his armor before he steadies himself.
“The ambush was his doing. When he got caught, he cut himself a deal and got out of the situation, leaving us there stranded amongst enemies. Three good men died because of him. He was supposed to die there that night, not them.”
My fingers tremble as I pull back from him, my heart pounding. I’ve always known Jason was dangerous, but this... this is something else entirely.
Zane’s eyes lock onto mine, and for the first time, I see beyond the scar, beyond the hard edges. There’s a grief there that mirrors my own, and it makes my chest ache.
“I’m sorry,” I say, unsure what else to say.
He shakes his head. “Don’t be. I’m not telling you this to get sympathy. I just... you deserve to know what he’s capable of. What he’s done.”
I nod slowly.
Zane’s jaw tightens as he looks down at his bandaged hand. “I barely got out as it is. But now I have my chance to finally get back at him.”
There’s a raw edge to his voice, a bitterness that feels like it’s been festering for years.
My mouth opens to respond, to say something about how revenge can be destructive, how it rarely brings us the closure we expect.
But the words stick in my throat as I lean closer to him, suddenly all too aware of his steady, intense gaze.
“The man is more than a menace,” Zane says softly, his voice like a quiet storm. “Let us help. Let me help.”
I want to respond, to tell him I’ve been fighting this battle on my own for so long that the idea of help feels foreign. But before I can, the soft thunder of tiny footsteps echoes down the stairs.
“Mommy?” Emma’s small voice carries into the room, and she appears in the doorway, clutching her unicorn tightly. Her big brown eyes—so much like Damon’s mother—widen as they land on Zane.
“Are you a soldier like Damon?” Emma asks.
The silence that follows feels like it might crack the walls. Zane’s sharp gaze darts to me, then to Emma, his expression unreadable. It’s like watching him put together a puzzle in real time, one that’s almost complete but missing just a few critical pieces.
“Something like that, princess,” he says finally, his rough voice gentling in a way that tugs at something deep inside me. “I help keep people safe.”
Ella peeks out from behind her sister, her curls a wild halo around her head. Both girls stare at Zane with the kind of innocent curiosity only children can muster.
Zane doesn’t flinch under their gaze, but something shifts in him. The hard edges of his demeanor soften, and the lines of tension in his shoulders ease just slightly.
“What’s that on your face?” Ella asks, pointing to the scar that runs down his cheek and disappears into the collar of his shirt.
“It’s a story,” Zane says, crouching down to their level. “A long one.”
“Is it a scary story?” Emma asks, her voice filled with wonder.
“Not for me,” he replies with a small, almost imperceptible smile. “But it has a happy ending.”
The girls exchange a look, then step closer, like they’re testing the waters. “Do you like unicorns?” Emma asks, holding up her stuffed toy as though it’s the most important question in the world.
Zane’s lips twitch, and for a second, I think he might laugh. “Unicorns are pretty cool,” he says, his tone so earnest that I can hardly believe it’s coming out of his mouth.
I watch as he answers their rapid-fire questions with unexpected patience, his gravelly voice growing warmer with each response. It’s like watching a fortress slowly lower its gates. The sight of this dangerous, scarred man softening to my daughters cracks something open inside me.
Ella tugs on his sleeve, and Zane doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans down so she can whisper something into his ear. Whatever she says makes him chuckle—a low, rumbling sound.
My throat tightens as I take it all in. This is what I’ve been fighting for: the girls’ safety, their innocence, their ability to find joy even in the midst of chaos. And now, against all odds, I find myself trusting this stranger to be a part of that fight.
“Okay,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else, but Zane hears it. His head lifts, his stormy blue eyes locking on mine with a mix of surprise and understanding.
“Okay?” he echoes, his tone unreadable.
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Okay,” I say again, louder this time. “I’ll let you guys decide what’s best. If it’s continuous, round-the-clock surveillance, so be it.”
Because maybe, just maybe, letting someone else shoulder the weight of this burden for a while isn’t a weakness. Maybe it’s the only way we’ll make it out of this intact.