Chapter 27
Clare
The rental car’s air conditioning fought a losing battle against Colombian heat.
I rolled the window down halfway, letting humid air flood the interior. Salt and vegetation, orchids blooming somewhere close. After weeks of European winter, snow and frost and that bone-deep cold that never quite left, the tropics felt like stepping into someone else’s dream.
Xavier drove. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh like he’d forget I was real if he stopped touching me.
The road wound along the coast, narrow and crumbling in places where the ocean had decided pavement was a suggestion rather than a rule. Palm trees bent toward the water, their fronds rattling in the breeze. The sea stretched endlessly beyond them, turquoise fading to deep blue at the horizon.
Beautiful didn’t begin to cover it.
I glanced at him. His jaw was tight, tension radiating through his shoulders despite the peaceful scenery. He’d barely spoken since we’d landed in Cartagena six hours ago.
The scar on his neck caught my attention. Healed now, more than a week post-surgery. A thin line where the chip had been removed, evidence carved into his skin of everything he’d survived.
We’d spent two weeks at the mountain safe house after Geneva. Quiet. Domestic. Learning how to exist without constant threat of death hanging over us.
Or trying to, anyway.
Xavier’s hands tightened on the wheel.
I covered one with mine. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” His voice came out rough. Unconvincing.
“Liar.”
His lips quirked. Almost a smile. “I’m nervous.”
“I know.”
Silence fell again. The ocean filled it, waves crashing against rocks somewhere below the road, constant and soothing.
But his breathing had changed. Shallow. Too controlled.
“What if she’s angry?” The question came out quiet. Vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be.
I squeezed his fingers. “She won’t be. None of this was your fault, love.”
“I was dead to her for so long, Clare. Just thinking I was gone, then finding out I was alive but broken, then...” He stopped. Jaw working. “I don’t know what to say to her.”
“Start with ‘I’m sorry.” I shifted in my seat to face him better. “Then go from there.”
His throat bobbed. He didn’t respond.
The cabana appeared around the next bend.
Small structure perched at the edge of the beach, weathered wood that had survived decades of salt air and tropical storms. Surrounded by palms that provided shade without blocking the ocean view. Waves lapped at white sand twenty yards from the front door.
Exactly the kind of place someone would hide if they needed the world to forget they existed.
His knuckles went white on the steering wheel.
I touched his arm. “Hey. Breathe.”
He did. One long, shaking inhale. Then pulled the car to a stop beside a beaten truck that had seen better years.
We sat there for a moment. Engine ticking as it cooled. Ocean breeze carrying the scent of salt and heat through the open windows.
“I don’t know what to say to her,” he repeated. Quieter this time. Lost.
I leaned over the center console, cupping his face with both palms. Made him look at me.
“You say you love her. You say you’re here now.” I brushed my thumb across his cheekbone. “The rest will come.”
His eyes searched mine. Looking for certainty I wasn’t sure I could give.
But I held his gaze. Steady. Present.
Finally, he nodded.
We got out of the car.
Sand shifted under my feet, warm and yielding. The humidity was intense, that wet, pressing thickness that made breathing feel like work. But after weeks of freezing, I welcomed it.
He came to my side, fingers finding mine automatically.
We walked toward the cabana together.
The door opened before we reached it.
A man stepped out first.
Tall. Intimidating. Built like someone who’d spent years learning to hunt people efficiently. Dark blue eyes tracked us with intensity, assessing threats even here in paradise.
Ronan, formerly known as Reaper.
I’d seen his photo in the files Hellhound had left us. Read about his escape, his breaking of Prima generation conditioning, his relationship with the journalist who’d freed him. Xavier’s sister.
But photos didn’t capture the coiled danger in his stance. How he positioned himself between the doorway and potential threats. The protective instinct radiating off him in waves. So similar to the man beside me.
His gaze locked on Xavier. Recognition flickered, operatives acknowledging each other, maybe. Or just understanding that passed between men who’d survived the same hell.
Brief nod. Acknowledgment without words.
Then he stepped aside.
A woman appeared in the doorway.
My breath caught.
Maeve.
Slender but fit, she had dark reddish-brown hair in the old pictures, but now was blonde, her mane falling past her shoulders. Dark brown eyes that caught the light and turned almost amber. Freckle below her jawline. Rope bracelet visible on her left wrist, worn, faded, clearly precious.
Xavier’s last birthday gift before he disappeared, that’s what he told me. I didn’t think she still had it.
She froze when she saw him.
Complete stillness. Like her brain needed a moment to process what was before her.
“Xav?” Her voice broke on the single syllable. Disbelief and hope tangled together.
He couldn’t speak. I felt his grip tighten, felt him trying to force words past whatever was locked in his throat.
He took one step forward.
She ran.
Crashed into him so hard he stumbled backward. Arms wrapping tight, face buried against his chest, sobbing, raw, broken sounds that made my own vision blur.
He caught her. Held her like she might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly.
“I’m here, Mae.” His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. I’m here.”
“You’re alive.” She pulled back enough to look at his face, palms coming up to cup his cheeks as though she needed physical confirmation. “You’re really alive.”
“I’m really alive.”
Fresh tears spilled down her face. She pulled him close again, holding on with desperate strength.
He buried his face in her hair, his own shoulders shaking.
I looked away. This moment was too private, too raw.
Ronan was already moving toward the cabana, giving them space.
I followed.
The interior was simple. Weathered wood floors, open layout with ocean visible through every window. Minimal furniture. Couch, table, chairs. Lived-in but not cluttered. Palm trees surrounded the property, creating natural privacy.
Sound of waves constant in the background. Peaceful.
A sanctuary.
Ronan stood near the window, arms crossed. Watching Maeve and Xavier outside, still locked in their reunion embrace.
I observed him observing her.
The stern former assassin couldn’t take his focus off his woman. His expression had softened, just slightly, but enough to notice. Protective. Possessive. Tender in a way that seemed at odds with his dangerous exterior.
I found it endearing.
“You know she’s safe, right?” I kept my voice light. Teasing. “He’s her brother.”
He didn’t look away from the window. “I know.”
“Then why are you watching her like a hawk?”
His jaw tightened. “Habit.”
I smiled. “Habit. Right.”
He finally glanced at me. Dark blue eyes sharp. Then his lips quirked. Almost imperceptible. “You do the same with him.”
I paused, realized he was right.
Every instance Xavier left the safe house for firewood, I’d positioned myself near windows. Tracked his movements. Couldn’t relax until he was back inside where I could see him.
“Fair point.”
Silence fell. Comfortable, surprisingly. Two people who understood the cost of loving someone dangerous.
His attention drifted back to the window. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For bringing him to her.”
I shook my head. “As if I had any say in the matter. The moment he remembered her, he would have crossed an ocean to find her.”
“She’s been searching for him.” His voice dropped. Quiet. “Every day since he was declared dead. Even when everyone else gave up. Even when it seemed impossible.”
“I know. He told me. She’s a courageous woman.”
“She never stopped.” His expression was unreadable, but something shifted in his tone. Pride, maybe. “First stretch in months I’ve seen her smile like that.”
I looked out the window. They were still holding each other, both of them talking now. Intense conversation I couldn’t hear but could read in their body language. She was touching his face, his arms, checking he was real. He was holding her wrists, speaking earnestly.
Siblings reunited after months of hell.
Warmth bloomed in my chest.
This is what family looked like.
Not blood. Choice. People who refused to give up on each other even when the world said it was hopeless.
Outside, she laughed, bright, genuine sound that carried through the open windows.
His expression softened further. He didn’t look away.
I left him to his watching and moved toward the kitchen, giving them both space.
The cabana was sparse but functional. Small kitchen with basic supplies. Bedroom visible through an open door. Bathroom. Everything needed for survival, nothing extra.
I poured myself water from a filter pitcher, drank it standing at the counter while ocean breeze moved through the space.
My mind wandered to a month ago.
Nurse in a French clinic. Routine. Safe. Alone. Fleeing a past I couldn’t change. Every day the same. Wake up, work, come home, sleep. Repeat. Haunted by my sister’s voice, by the calls I didn’t answer, by the promise I’d broken.
Now?
Entangled with secret organizations, assassins, a deranged madman obsessed with perfecting human conditioning. Harboring a fugitive. Accessory to multiple felonies. Running from kill teams. Watching the man I loved nearly die, multiple times, before finally getting the chip removed.
The contrast was staggering.
A month ago, I’d been existing. Going through motions. Surviving but not living.
Now every day was different. Unpredictable. Full.