Chapter 15 #2
They worked in focused silence for the next twenty minutes—mapping surge flow, isolating pediatric contingencies, assigning redundancy roles. Ford stayed methodical, precise. But a part of his attention kept circling back to the photograph he refused to look at again.
Hunter was related to her. And the uncomfortable truth settled in his chest. He had interrogated enemies. Allies. Strangers. Entire governments. He had never interrogated someone he cared about.
When they finished, he pushed the chair back and stood. “Okay. That’s enough for now.”
She frowned. “We could refine?—”
“Later,” he said. “Right now, you’re eating.”
“And then?”
“And then you’re sleeping for at least ninety minutes. I’ll keep watch.”
She studied him, her furrowed brow telling him she was weighing whether to fight it. She didn’t. “Fine.”
He moved toward the door, then paused, his eyes landing briefly on the edge of the desk. On the photo. Questions pressed at him—they weren’t tactical ones. They were personal ones. He followed her out of the office without asking them.
First, he would get her fed and rested. Protected. And, somehow, he would get his answers.
Rain followed them all the way down the path.
It was steady, soaking the earth dark and muting the island into shades of gray and green.
The clinic lights glowed behind them as they crossed the courtyard.
Staff had rotated. The ventilator at the hospital was steady. Gabe and Liana had medical command.
For ninety minutes, the world would not collapse.
Ford kept the Jeep slow on the muddy track to the villa. Eira sat beside him, arms folded loosely, eyes forward.
“You’re thinking about the lab trend lines,” he said.
She sighed and nodded.
“They won’t change in the next hour.”
She didn’t argue.
The villa appeared through the rain like a low, steady presence against the wind. He cut the engine and came around to her side without comment.
She stepped out, pausing under the overhang as water streamed from the roof edge. “This feels irresponsible.”
“It’s strategic,” he corrected.
Inside, the villa was dim but warm. The storm softened against the walls. He toed off his boots and moved straight to the kitchen. “Sit.”
She did, but not with full surrender. She perched at the counter, ready to spring up again as he pulled together food: rice, grilled fish, and lentils microwaved with flatbread warmed in the toaster. He plated it without flourish and set it in front of her.
“Eat all of it.”
“You’re insubordinate,” she protested.
“I’m effective.”
A faint breath of a smile touched her mouth despite herself. She started slowly, then hunger took over. Real hunger. The kind that came after adrenaline drained out of the bloodstream.
He stayed close but didn’t hover. Poured water. Checked the time. Let the rain fill the silence. When she finished, her shoulders lowered a fraction.
“That’s better,” he said.
“I hate that you’re right.”
“Get used to it.”
She rolled her eyes faintly but didn’t argue.
He stepped closer, voice dropping. “Ninety minutes. I’ll wake you.”
“And you?”
“I’ll monitor comms from here. If anything shifts, we go.”
She studied him carefully, searching for cracks. “You’re not running on empty?”
“No,” he said evenly. “Not today.”
She stood slowly, and for now, she let the exhaustion show plainly. Pure fatigue.
He took her hand and led her down the hallway. The bedroom was dim, rain blurring the glass. He pulled back the covers and waited.
She hesitated only a second before lying down. He knelt beside the bed, fingers brushing lightly along her wrist. “Sleep.”
“You sound like you’re issuing orders again.”
“I am.”
Her eyes closed before she could muster a reply. It took less than a minute for her breathing to deepen. He stayed there longer than necessary, watching to make sure it was real sleep, not the brittle, half-alert version he knew all too well.
Only then did he rise. He stepped back into the main room and pulled his phone from his pocket. He checked secure messages, weather tracking, and harbor status.
His mind circled back to the office and to the photograph. Young Hunter held a baby in his arms. Eira’s last name. Montgomery.
He leaned his forearms on the kitchen counter, staring at nothing.
Maybe Hunt was her older brother, explaining why Kieran had hesitated.
And it meant something else. She lied to him.
He’d given her the opportunity to tell him.
When Hunter stepped off that plane in twenty-four hours and walked into that clinic—Eira would see him.
And she would see Ford standing beside him.
He exhaled slowly.
He’d negotiated ceasefires in active conflict zones. He’d de-escalated hostile governments. He’d interrogated men trained not to break. He had never navigated the personal terrain of someone he was beginning to love.
He glanced down the hallway toward the bedroom. First priority: keep her upright. Second: hold the island steady. When the surge stabilized, he would have to ask. Not as an operator. Not as a commander. But as a man.
And he was still figuring out how to do that without turning it into a briefing.
He circled back to his first thought. He was beginning to love Eira Montgomery.