12. Mya
12
“I’m going to give you two a chance to talk. I’ll be outside. Chopping wood or something.” Sam tossed a hand over his shoulder, emphasizing the first words he’d spoken since I’d followed him into the small kitchen.
Oliver walked in, pulling a gray T-shirt over his head, barely acknowledging his dad with a grumbling noise as they passed each other. He’d already put socks on, probably so I wouldn’t pay attention to how he’d hurt himself for me. Again. Damn that word. He kept making sacrifices for me. Even now, after he’d left me behind.
I set aside the mug Sam had handed me, not really interested in Irish coffee. “Have anything without so much kick to it?”
Oliver peered over at the mug, shaking his head. “Sorry about that.” He walked past me, and I caught a hint of his cologne that he definitely hadn’t been wearing in the woods.
You put that on for me? Why’d that make my heart jump?
He turned on the stove, setting a red kettle there, then set his back to the counter next to it, not yet blessing me with eye contact.
Rooted to my spot by the table, I observed the kitchen. Not so much charming as stuck in the ’70s. With peeling wallpaper and scuffed-up wood floors, it was about the size of the kitchen I’d had at twenty-two. Basically, small and simple.
When Oliver folded his arms, I took that as my cue to redirect my attention his way and open up some type of dialogue, but he beat me to it.
“Should you let Gwen know you found me, and you’re not dead?” His tone was flat, not much emotion, and I wasn’t sure why that bothered me, but it did.
“She’s tracking me. Not the kind of trackers Sydney gave us in Thailand. We still don’t know how anyone found out about those and killed the signal, so we don’t use them anymore, just in case.” I pushed my hair back, showing him the diamond studs in my ears. “These earrings were designed by Gwen. An upgrade from those invisible stickers she invented a while back. No limit on their range, either.” Thank God I’d convinced Gwen to help me, or I’d have been screwed. “But yeah, I suppose I should send her a quick encrypted text.”
He reached into his pocket and produced my phone and tossed it to me.
Considering how much that surprised me, I was glad I caught it mid-air instead of letting it whack me in the face. “You went through my things?”
“Front pocket of the backpack only. I knew you’d have your phone there.” He pointed to the ceiling. “Dad killed the power and jammed all the signals so you didn’t electrocute yourself, so give it a few minutes before you try and get a text out.” A lock of hair fell across his forehead and in his eyes, and I barely stopped myself before I maneuvered around the table between us to brush it away myself.
“Your dad’s paranoid, huh?” I asked as he tore his hands through his hair, sweeping the dark strands out of his eyes.
“That’s an understatement.” He relocked his arms over his chest, the vein in his arm more prominent from the movement. “How long will the team be on their mission?”
“Why?” I arched my brow.
“So I know how long I’ve got to deal with you here.” He drew his lower lip inward as if biting back more that he wanted to say.
“Five days. Maybe longer.” I set the phone on the table so I could hold on to the nearby chair for support. “A lot has happened since you took off.”
“I know.” He studied me as if disinterested in anything related to the evil group that ruined our lives. Subpar acting at best. He cared. Of course he did.
“Would you like me to recap these last few months? Summarize everything?”
“I don’t need a book report.” He casually lifted his shoulders, training his attention out the small window over the sink. “All I know is you shouldn’t be here. You risked your life for nothing.”
“I risked my life for you,” I protested, because damn, that jab stung.
In a more somber tone, he said, “I’m not worth the risk. And I didn’t want to be found.” He faced the counter, dropping his head forward. His triceps flexed, and his back muscles pinched together as he braced against it.
“Well, then you shouldn’t have let me find you.” If he was going to be harsh, I could play that game, too. “Like I said earlier, Gwen covered your tracks, and mine coming here.” I let go of the chair and skirted the small square table that was parked at the center of the cramped space. “Why were you at The Sapphire?”
“There’s no way the team left on an op without security protecting you. Not since The Collective knows your name,” he said instead.
“The Collective knows more than my name. More than yours.” I swallowed, waiting for a reaction from him, but he didn’t even bother to lift his head to let me know he’d heard me.
“I’m aware.”
Wait, how?
No time to digest that fact before he quickly ordered, “Now, text Gwen you’re alive, and I’m going to make pancakes.” He glanced back at me over his shoulder. “I remember how grumpy you get when you’re hungry.”
“Pancakes? Are you kidding? Also, it’s you who grumpifies if you don’t eat.” My lip hitched at the side when it dawned on me he’d teased me. The man who wanted me goner-than-gone apparently made a joke.
Pivoting my way, he afforded me the chance to make out a smile he tried to cover with a wince. That quirk of his lips may have been accidental, but a win was a win.
Ice.
Walls.
Can.
Crack.
“Yeah, pancakes are needed.” A not-so-subtle throat clear later, he asked, “Because you don’t want me to grump-i-fy, do you?” He slowly enunciated my fake word, and that low, raspy tone should not have sent a rush of heat through my body, but it did. It also gave me hope yet again. Hope that I wasn’t completely broken, and neither was he.
“Can you really get any grumpier than you are now?” I challenged, and smirked when he went ahead and proved that, yeah, he could, scowling while motioning for me to scram. “Fine, I’ll eat your pancakes.”
I forced myself to break away from our staring contest, backing up a step. Not leaving the kitchen, I followed the protocol Gwen had taught me to safely get a message to her.
Me: I’m here, and he’s not happy about it. But he’s alive and looks okay.
I left out the part about his dad for now.
Gwen’s message came back quick and in code. I stared at the phone impatiently while I waited a few seconds for it to translate.
Gwen: Good. (Our security detail freaked when they found out you snuck out, though.) They called Carter. (Snitches.) Mason called me back and gave me an earful. Oh, he’s pissssssed. (Not a shocker.) Carter just said to let him know when you’re safe with Oliver, and when you need an exfil, assuming Oliver plans to kick you out, I guess.
Me: Tell them I’m most definitely safe, and I don’t plan to go anywhere. Keep me posted on their op, though.
Gwen: Will do. Tell Oliver we all miss him and need him back. Nothing has been the same without him here.
Me: Now to convince him of that. Thank you again for having my six.
I powered off my phone and placed it back on the table.
From the corner of my eye, I watched as Oliver opened the freezer and pulled out a bag of pancakes. “And here I was expecting them to be made from scratch.” I couldn’t help but go for round two of teasing.
“It’s this or granola. Take your pick, butter—” He cut himself off while setting down the bag of French mini pancakes, hung his head, and grunted at his near-slip of my nickname.
I’d give anything to hear him finish that sentence. To call me buttercup and feel a sense of normalcy again, even for a second.
Wild enough, I found myself desperate to run my fingers over the ridges of his arms, ask him to draw me into his secure embrace. Hug him like I knew he needed. But my trembling hands and fast heart rate made the decision for me, and I took two steps back instead.
“How do you know all of our identities were exposed?” We had to fill in the gaps of what we’d both been doing for almost four months at some point, and I wanted to get it over with. When he didn’t answer, I added, “It was all a trap. They took us as bait to draw out the others.”
Still not looking at me, hands firmly placed on the counter, he grated out a quick, “I know.”
“They were going to crash the plane. It’d been tampered with in Singapore. They planned to take all of us out.”
“I know.” Same tone. Same lack of emotion there, and it was maddening.
Was that really all he had to say? And how did he know?
“A hacker gave us the heads-up and saved our lives. They’ve helped us two more times since, but we don’t know why or who they are, just that they’re deep undercover.”
I folded my arms, waiting for him to give me the same response again, and when he did, I curled my fingertips inward, my frustration kicking up.
“We’ve been holed up in a new safe house but still playing offense, not just hiding out. We refused to surrender like they wanted. But our families are off-the-grid. We couldn’t risk their safety. And you know Carter already had Diana in that fortress in Dubai, so . . .” Carter’s identity had been exposed last year and blasted all over the media, so this wasn’t his first rodeo in protecting those he loved.
“But you’re okay with risking your life, is that it?” At least he gave me something other than, I know, but his harsh tone sent a chill whipping down my spine.
“I may have trouble being touched, but I won’t let The Collective take all of me, especially not my will to fight back.” Shit, my eyes became glossy at my admission, and he slowly turned my way.
I flicked away the inconvenient drops of liquid that’d escaped, doing my best to discard the emotions along with the tears.
His mouth tightened, remaining quiet.
“We’ve gone after multiple targets since”—I swallowed—“Thailand, and like always, before we can question them, they mysteriously die. Eight families in total have been eliminated since we began hunting them last year.”
He frowned, then opened the bag of pancakes, placing a few on the pan as the kettle whistled.
“So, you must know that the Sorens are still alive and haven’t been taken out, despite the fact we know their names, which is strange.”
I crossed my arms again, waiting for him to confirm he knew that, too, but he ignored me. “We’d thought The Collective sat at some ‘knights of the round table’ thing, where no one family had more power than the other, but there’s always someone who emerges as leader of the pack.” I waited for a reaction. Still nothing. He kept busying himself with preparing breakfast. “What if the Sorens are still alive because they’re in control of the whole Collective? Maybe they’re at the top of the hierarchy.”
He flipped the pancakes. “How long did you say your team will be gone again?”
“What the actual hell?” I’d hit my breaking point at handling his casual aloofness. “That’s your response to everything I’ve said? What’s wrong with you?”
“A lot. Should be fairly fucking obvious by now.” He didn’t bother to look at me, solely fixed on the task of preparing the pancakes.
“And only my team, huh?” When he didn’t acknowledge me, I pulled out the chair and dropped down. “Would you please talk to me?” Damn the desperation in my tone, but hell, I wasn’t above begging. I needed answers. “Tell me how you already know everything, and explain what you were doing in Europe at that hotel.”
“You came here uninvited.” Spatula down, he finally faced me. “I didn’t want you here, and I still don’t want you here.” He zeroed in on my mouth and hissed, “I’m not on the team anymore, and I don’t belong with them as much as you don’t belong in this kitchen.” His chest heaved up and down as he stared at me.
Before I could figure out what to say next, he turned off the stove and abandoned the pancakes, retreating from the room and our conversation.
By the time I caught up with him, he was cursing and holding his shoulder in the living room. “Would you look at me?” I pleaded.
“No,” he bit out, keeping his back to me.
“Why not?” I was tempted to circle him, but I had a feeling he’d be a stubborn kid and shift away if I did.
“Because, dammit, if I look at you, I’ll . . .”
“You’ll what?” My voice broke, the pain from our shared past catching up to me.
He cradled his head as if he had a migraine, or was on the verge of losing control. “I can’t do this. I can’t look at you anymore and not . . . not remember. It’s too hard. Harder than I thought it’d be.”
The pain in his tone. Holy fuck, the pain. It broke me all over again.
Unable to stop myself, I crossed the creaky floorboards and lifted my hand and wrapped it over his shoulder. He flinched from my touch, but I didn’t. My thoughts raced as I continued to hold him, and he slowly lowered his hands from his head and lifted one up over his shoulder.
I thought he was going to remove my touch, but instead, he gently rested his hand on top of mine. Tears welled in my eyes at how good it felt to be this close to him. To breathe in his scent. To have his thumb slowly skating in small, sweeping movements up and down my pinkie, and not panic.
“Do you hate me for what you had to do?” I pushed out the horrible words that’d been eating at me for months. The guilt and blame. The shame at the sacrifices he’d made for me.
He pulled his hand away and stepped forward, and my arm fell to my side like a broken branch as tears slid down my cheeks.
From over his shoulder, his eyes met mine. His hands were balled at his sides as if curtailing his desire to hold me, worried he’d startle or scare me if he tried.
“I only hate myself,” he said hoarsely before making a quick exit.
Remaining in place, unsure what to do, I looked out the window to see him approach his father. He peeled off his shirt and flung it to the side before Sam handed him an ax.
Oliver lifted the ax and brought it down hard onto a block of wood on a tree stump, his face screwed up tight as if the motion had caused him pain. He split the thick piece of wood in half before immediately dropping the ax to hold his shoulder.
Dammit, Oliver. What in the hell am I going to do with you?