Chapter 2
RACHEL
Colton Stryker is standing in my living room, and I need him to start talking before I do something stupid like cry or scream or both.
Lucas's door is already closed down the hall. Good. Whatever Colton is about to tell me, my son doesn't need to hear it, doesn't need to watch me measure the distance to every exit or catalog which neighbors would hear me scream.
Hair still short and military-precise. Eyes that miss nothing, already calculating exits and threats even in my tiny living room with its secondhand furniture and photos of Lucas on every wall. Still looking at me like I matter.
"Talk," I say again, and I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds. How flat. Like he's a stranger instead of the man who taught me what it felt like to be seen and then made me invisible by disappearing.
His jaw tightens. "I’m right about the nightmares, aren’t I?"
My stomach drops. "Yes."
Three weeks of Lucas crying in the dark, saying he's sorry, refusing to tell me why. Three weeks of me thinking it was delayed trauma from the cartel, from everything that happened when Micah's team got us out.
But it started right after that day at Martinez Grocery when I was on that work call and Lucas wandered off, came back pale and shaking, wouldn't tell me what was wrong.
Two goddamn minutes. That's all it took for me to fail at protecting him.
"You don't get to ask me about my son." The words come out cold. "You don't get to stand in my house after eight years of silence and act like you know anything about our lives."
"One of the operatives Lucas saw has a distinctive tattoo.
Snake wrapped around a dagger on his forearm.
" He takes a step closer. I force myself not to back away.
"The Committee's been running facial recognition through security cameras, cross-referencing with school records and DMV databases.
They don't have your address yet, but they're narrowing the search grid.
Could be days. Could be weeks. But they will find him. "
My mind shifts into the cold logic the cartel taught me. Assess the threat. Calculate the options. Survive.
"What do you want me to do?" The question comes out steady, and I'm grateful for that much.
"Let me stay. Let me set up proper security and protect you both while my team arranges a permanent solution.
" He never breaks eye contact. "If you run now, you'll trigger every surveillance system between here and wherever you go.
Bank withdrawals, gas station cameras, hotel check-ins.
The Committee's watching for exactly that kind of movement.
But if you stay put and let me fortify this house, you buy us time to do this right.
New identities. Witness protection. A relocation they can't trace. "
Same words he said outside, but they land differently now. Now that he's connected Lucas's nightmares to something real. Now that I know my son has been carrying this terror alone because he was too scared to tell me.
Photos of Lucas at every age from infant to now line my wall. Lucas smiling, Lucas serious, Lucas being a happy, bright, brave kid. Lucas, who deserves a life where he doesn't have to be afraid of men with snake tattoos and organizations that eliminate witnesses.
Lucas, who needs me to make the right choice even when that choice means letting Colton Stryker back into our lives.
"Fine." The word tastes like defeat, but I say it anyway. "You can stay. But we need rules."
"Rules." He doesn't quite smile, but something shifts in his expression that might be relief.
"You sleep on the couch. You don't interrogate Lucas about what he saw unless absolutely necessary.
You don't make promises you can't keep." Meeting his eyes, letting him see every bit of steel I've built over the past years.
"And when this is over, when your team finds this permanent solution and Lucas is safe, you leave.
You walk away again like you're so good at, and this time you don't come back. Ever."
Shoulders tighten. Jaw works like he's biting back something he wants to say. Good. Let him feel a fraction of what waking up to an empty apartment and a note saying I deserve better felt like.
"Understood," he says finally.
"I mean it, Colton. You're here to do a job. Nothing more. We're not friends. We're not anything except two people who used to know each other and now have a common goal of keeping my son alive."
"I know."
"Do you?" I step closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, close enough to remember what it felt like when those eyes looked at me like I was worth staying for.
"Because you have a habit of making things complicated.
Of making me think there's more than there is. And I can't do that again. I won't."
"Rachel—"
"I survived the cartel." My voice drops, goes cold in a way I've practiced for years.
In a way that keeps people at distance and reminds me that soft gets you hurt.
"Over a year of captivity and things you can't imagine, and I came out the other side.
Built a life for Lucas and me. A safe life.
A quiet life. And then you show up and tell me it's all falling apart again. "
"I'm here to make sure it doesn't fall apart."
"You're here because your team sent you.
Because someone decided I'd trust you more than a stranger.
" I shake my head. "They were wrong. I don't trust you at all.
But I trust that you're good at what you do, and what you do is keep people alive.
So do your job, Colton. Keep Lucas safe.
And when it's done, disappear like you did before. "
Silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we're not saying. All the history we're both pretending doesn't matter when it matters more than either of us wants to admit.
"I'll need access to your security," he says finally, shifting into professional mode like the personal conversation never happened. "Doors, windows, any alarm system you have. I need to know the layout of the house, sight lines from the street, escape routes if we have to move fast."
"I don't have an alarm system."
Something tightens in his expression. "You lived through being held by a Cartel lieutenant and you don't have a state-of-the-art alarm system?"
"I have locks. I have awareness. I have a nine-millimeter in a biometric safe and the training to use it.
" I sound defensive, and I hate that. Hate justifying my choices to him.
"Micah taught me how to shoot before he handed me off to the FBI handlers.
Said I should know how to protect myself if anyone from the compound ever came looking. "
"Good." His voice softens just slightly. "That's good. But locks and a pistol won't stop the Committee if they send a team. I need to set up better security. Motion sensors. Cameras. Something that gives us warning before they're at the door."
"And that won't look suspicious? Suddenly having a security system that could guard a bank?"
"Normally, yes. But I can make it look gradual.
A few cameras this week, motion sensors next week.
Spread it out so it looks like you're ramping up slowly after Lucas's nightmares got worse.
" He pauses. "Plus, I have access to commercial-grade equipment that doesn't require professional installation permits or companies logging your address in their databases.
No paper trail for the Committee to follow. "
His voice drops. "You've been keeping a low profile. Smart move after the cartel. But low profile means basic locks and hoping you stay off their radar. That worked until Lucas witnessed a murder. Now you need real security without announcing to the Committee that someone's protecting a witness."
He glances toward the hallway where Lucas's room is. "I should talk to Lucas. He won't know me, but he needs to understand the basics of what's happening."
"No." The word comes out sharp and final. "You don't talk to Lucas about any of this. He's six years old. He's already carrying enough fear without you adding to it."
"He needs to know the danger—"
"He needs to feel safe. He needs to believe his mother can protect him.
He needs normal, Colton, not tactical briefings from a man he doesn't know.
" I cross my arms and plant myself between him and the hallway.
"You want to set up security? Fine. You want to sleep on my couch and watch for threats?
Fine. But you don't touch Lucas's sense of safety. That's mine to handle."
I step closer, making sure he hears every word. "And whatever weapons you're carrying stay locked up when you're in this house. Lucas is six. He's curious. He's been through trauma. I'm not risking him finding a loaded gun on my coffee table because you got comfortable."
He studies me for a long moment, calculating, weighing, deciding whether to push. Finally, he nods. "All right. But if something happens, if there's an immediate threat, I'm not going to have time for gentle explanations."
"If there's an immediate threat, you do whatever it takes to keep him alive. But until then, he's just a kid whose mom has an old friend staying for a while. That's the story we're selling."
"Old friend." Something bitter crosses his face. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"That's what we're calling it. Because Lucas doesn't need to know that you broke my heart and disappeared. He doesn't need to know that his mother was stupid enough to fall for someone who treated her like a mission with an expiration date."
Something shutters behind his eyes. He goes very still.
"I left because—"
"I don't care why you left." I cut him off before he can finish, before he can give me reasons that might sound logical or explanations that might make sense. "I cared eight years ago when I needed answers. Now I just need you to do your job and then leave. Everything else is irrelevant."
He opens his mouth like he's going to argue, then closes it. Smart man. Nothing he says will make this better, and we both know it.
"I should check the perimeter," he says instead. "Make sure there's no surveillance already in place."
"Fine. I'll explain to Lucas that you're staying for a while."
"And if he asks why?"
"I'll tell him you're here to help keep us safe." It’s an abbreviated version of the truth, but it’s one Lucas can handle. "He's a good kid. He won't push."
Colton nods slowly, then moves toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the knob, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite read. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. For leaving. For the way I did it. For all of it."
"Like I said, irrelevant." Keeping my voice flat, refusing to let him see that the apology lands anywhere near my heart. "Check your perimeter. I'll talk to Lucas."
He leaves without another word, and standing alone in my living room feels like standing between the ghost of who I used to be and the reality of who I've become.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound drags me back eight years. Different door. Different time and place. Same echo of him walking away.
His hands had been everywhere that last night.
Rough palms sliding over skin still damp from the shower, fingers tangling in my wet hair as he backed me against the bathroom counter.
Steam still hung in the air, making everything hazy and unreal.
Making it easier to pretend this wasn't goodbye even though I could feel it in every desperate touch.
"Stay," I'd whispered against his mouth. Not begging. Just stating what I needed. What we both needed if this was going to be anything more than bodies seeking comfort in the dark.
He'd kissed me harder instead of answering.
Lifted me onto the counter and stepped between my thighs, his dog tags cold against my overheated skin.
Every stroke deliberate and claiming, like he could mark me as his through sheer physical intensity.
Like he could make me forget that he'd never once said he loved me, never once promised tomorrow.
I'd let him. God help me, I'd let him because having part of him felt better than having none of him, and I was young enough to believe that good sex meant something more than two people who fit well together in the dark.
Afterward, we'd lain tangled in my sheets, his heartbeat steady under my palm, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my spine. I'd started to drift off thinking maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time he'd choose me over whatever mission came next.
I woke to an empty bed and a note on the pillow. "You deserve better than this. Better than me."
Coward's words. Walking away was easier than staying. Easier than admitting he couldn't give me what I needed. Easier than being honest about what we were—temporary, disposable, never meant to last.
Standing in my living room now, older and harder and infinitely more careful about who I let close, that memory feels like it happened to someone else.
That girl who thought good sex meant love, who thought a man who touched her like she mattered would actually stay—she's gone. Mateo's compound made sure of that.
Smart and patient, that's how I survived Mateo's compound. Learning when to fight and when to submit. Learning when to hide my fear and when to use it. Building walls so high that nothing and no one could hurt me again.
And now Colton Stryker is back, and those walls need to be higher. Stronger. Impenetrable.
Because protecting Lucas means letting Stryker sleep on my couch and set up his security systems and do whatever tactical operator things he needs to do to keep my son safe.
But my heart stays locked away. That's the one thing the cartel couldn't break and Micah's extraction couldn't fix.
Some damage is permanent. Some walls exist for a reason. And some people don't get second chances no matter how much they might want them.
Walking down the hallway to Lucas's room requires composing my face into something calm and reassuring.
Something that doesn't show the fear twisting in my gut or the anger burning in my chest or the memory of what it felt like to love Colton Stryker before he taught me that love is just another word for eventual loss.
My hand rests on Lucas's doorknob.
Time to lie to my son about the man sleeping on our couch. Time to smile and pretend everything's fine while Committee operatives hunt him through databases and security footage. Time to trust the man who walked away eight years ago with the only thing that matters.
The cartel taught me how to survive captivity.
Now Colton Stryker gets to teach me how to survive the Committee, the past, and him.