11. Sloane
SLOANE
T he kitchen smells like scorched potential.
Burnt toast, half-boiled eggs—breakfast aromas that should spark nostalgia or comfort instead fill my lungs with an acrid melancholy.
Memories rise unbidden, choking against the charred crunch and watery disappointment currently being passed around the table.
Elias shoots me a sympathetic look as Logan slides a plate of the culinary crime scene in front of me. "He burns everything," the medic murmurs under his breath. "We're working on it."
I muster a shadow of a smile in response, more an acknowledgment of his warmth than an acceptance of the offering.
Food hasn't sparked much appetite lately. Not when every bland bite carries the risk of some suppressed recollection surging forward to drown me.
The others gather around, chatter drifting through the haze.
Caleb's playful ribbing about Logan's kitchen skills. Knox's pointed silence as he prods the gelatinous yolk with clear disdain.
Even Asa emerges from his tech cave, summoned by the promise of protein and caffeine despite the dubious quality.
For a handful of breaths, the scene borders on domestic .
The kind of comfortable intimacy born from years of shared hardship and unspoken trust. A family forged in the fire rather than borne of bloodlines.
My chest aches to be part of it.
To let these hard-edged men with their battered souls peel back some layers of the armor encasing mine.
But old habits form refractory coatings—the constant, frantic retreat into self-preservation at any hint of belonging.
So I deflect.
Rebuild my walls between swallows of the black sludge Caleb dares call coffee. Let the conversation flow around me, an ocean I can't quite bring myself to dive into.
"Not all operatives can be skilled in every domain," Logan rumbles, ever the strategist leveraging his teammates' critiques. "Efficiency sometimes requires sacrifice."
Elias snorts into his mug. "Since when does 'sacrifice' mean rubbery eggs?"
"Actually," Asa's voice cuts through from behind, eyes on his phone, "protein denaturation through extended heat exposure increases digestive efficiency by up to twenty-eight percent." A pause, fingers clicking across keys without breaking rhythm. "Though taste does suffer proportionally."
"You're seriously defending his cooking with science ?" I can't help the disbelief in my voice.
"Data doesn't lie." Asa doesn't look up, but I catch the ghost of a smirk. "Unlike certain individuals who claim their laptops 'just stopped working' when the search history proves otherwise."
"Hey, that was one time," Caleb protests, pointing his fork accusingly. "And that site was for research."
"Of course." Asa's tone could freeze hell. "Because tactical gear suppliers commonly advertise on pages titled 'Hot Singles in Your Area.'"
I bite back a laugh, watching the tech genius systematically dismantle Caleb's dignity without ever taking his eyes off his screens.
A low chuckle ripples through the group, loosening the knots between their shoulders until the banter flows easier.
Lighter.
They're settling into the comfortable cadence of brothers who've seen the world at its worst and decided to make their own microcosm better.
I should follow their lead.
Find solace in the way these ruthlessly skilled warriors pause their day to trade barbs over a shared meal.
Let myself sink into the warmth radiating from their makeshift clan and forget, for a handful of stolen moments, how cold the shadows have felt lately.
But as my fork carves idle paths through the wreckage on my plate, gathering crumbled eggshell and flecks of carbon instead of sustenance, a simpler scent cuts through the haze.
The sharp sting of burnt bread.
T he kitchen smells like burnt toast and printer ink.
Dad sits at the table, elbows resting on a stack of newsprint, a manila envelope beside his untouched coffee.
He looks... calm. Not shaken. Not scared.
Just tired in a way that settles deep into the bones.
I perch on the edge of the counter, chewing the sleeve of my hoodie. Waiting for him to speak.
My legs swing nervously, bare feet catching the cool air.
I'm fourteen and full of questions he won't answer. Like why the lines around his eyes have deepened overnight, why his hands shake when he thinks I'm not looking.
When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost apologetic. "Sometimes the truth doesn't set you free," he says. "Sometimes it puts a target on your back."
I frown, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. "Then why chase it?"
His eyes flick up—sharp, glassy, gentle. The eyes of someone who's seen too much and can't unsee it. "Because if we don't, someone else pays the price."
He taps the envelope.
Doesn't open it.
Just looks at it like it might explode. Then pushes it toward me.
"But if you ever find something dangerous," he says, "you think before you share it. Not everyone around you gets to choose the fallout."
I don't understand. Not really.
I'm fourteen, full of fury and idealism.
I believe in black and white, in right and wrong, in speaking truth to power no matter what. I don't yet understand how truth can be a weapon that cuts both ways—how it can free you while damning everyone you love.
But I cling to one thing he does say, the one thing that feels like a rule I can live by: "Don't ever let someone else write your story."
I nod.
He smiles like it hurts. Like he's already seeing the ending and can't change it. "Then promise me, kiddo. If the world tries to silence you ? —"
"I speak louder," I say.
His hand tightens over mine for half a second. Then lets go.
Two days later, he leaves for a meeting in D.C.
He never comes back.
No body. No answers. Just a voicemail that cuts off midsentence and a funeral with an empty casket.
The official report calls it suicide.
His colleagues call it burnout.
Everyone calls it abandonment.
But me?
I call it fuel.
And I decide right then:
If the world tries to silence you, speak louder.
The truth might kill.
But not knowing it, not telling it is worse.
T he others filter out of the kitchen, their voices fading down the hallway.
Only Logan stays behind, methodically stacking plates with military precision.
I linger at the table, caught between the urge to help and the instinct to run.
The burnt toast sits heavy in my stomach, a reminder of mornings long gone—Dad's attempts at breakfast, the way he'd laugh at his own culinary disasters.
The truth doesn't set you free , he'd said. Sometimes it puts a target on your back.
Logan's movements are controlled, deliberate.
Each dish finds its place with tactical efficiency. I stand and gather the remaining mugs, needing something to do with my hands.
The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken words.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low but urgent. "We need to talk about G."
"You want to talk?" I lean forward, voice sharp as snapped steel. "Let's trade. You tell me about Blackout, I'll tell you about G. Simple math—your secrets for mine."
G?
I know zilch about G's identity. Just that he's hell-bent on silencing me about Blackout.
Somehow, Logan's convinced I've got answers.
Perfect .
This gives me leverage.
Chalk it up to reporter instincts—never reveal your hand too soon. Especially when you have a good guess on who orders G.
G is probably a hired gun—one of those government contractors who handle the dirty work when things need to stay off official records.
The connection? A classified op called "Blackout" I'd been digging into before he showed up.
The official story claims Blackout was a hostage rescue in North Africa.
Clean. Simple. Heroic.
But my intel suggests a darker truth—the real target was a whistleblower they wanted silenced. Permanently.
Then the whole op vanished. No paper trail. No witnesses. The hostages, the operatives, the mission itself—all scrubbed from existence like they never existed.
That's what burns me up.
The elite can just erase their crimes while everyone else faces justice. So much for equality under the law.
But truth? Truth cuts through those lies like a knife.
And I've got the blade.
"We could keep circling like sharks until one of us bleeds out."
His stare bores into me. Message received—I'm the designated bleeder.
"Your choice."
Perfect. Another ultimatum.
I've spent days watching him—the way he moves, the way he thinks, the way he protects without hesitation. Part of me wants to trust him. But trust is what got my source killed. Trust is what made me think I could outrun this.
No.
I won't surrender my only card without backup insurance.
Logan turns, fixing me with that storm-gray stare that sees too much. He steps closer, and suddenly the kitchen feels smaller. His presence radiates heat and intensity, making me acutely aware of the counter at my back, the diminishing space between us.
"We can't let him keep the upper hand," he says. "We need to plan our next move carefully. Gather intel, secure the perimeter."
I shake my head, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. "You don't understand. He's not just some enemy you can outsmart with military precision." My fingers curl around the edge of the counter. "He's ruthless, and he's got resources you can't imagine."
Logan's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "And you think running is going to save you? That worked so well the last time, didn't it?"
The words cut deep—not because they're cruel, but because they're true. Because beneath the sharp edges, I hear the concern that makes them sting worse than anger ever could.
"You don't know what it's like," I say, my voice cracking despite my best efforts. "To watch everyone you care about get hurt because of you—because of the truth you carry." Because of words you can't take back.
He takes a step back, but his eyes stay locked on mine. The intensity softens, but doesn't fade. "You're not alone in this," he says quietly.
I want to believe him. God, how I want to believe that safety exists somewhere—that there's a version of this story where I don't end up alone or dead or responsible for someone else's blood.
But Dad's voice echoes in my head:
Not everyone around you gets to choose the fallout.
I turn away, moving to the window. Outside, snow falls in lazy spirals, each flake catching the morning light. It looks peaceful. Calm. Like the world isn't full of hunters and ghosts.
"I'm not ready to trust like that," I whisper. "Not yet."
The silence that follows feels heavy with possibility—and regret.
I sense Logan behind me, a solid presence radiating warmth and certainty. He doesn't push. Doesn't try to change my mind. Just stands there, offering strength without demands.
And that's almost worse.
Because it would be easier if he was angry. If he tried to force answers I'm not ready to give.
Instead, he just... waits. Like he has all the time in the world. Like he's not afraid of my demons or my distance.
I press my forehead against the cold glass, watching my breath fog the window. The tree line beyond seems to blur, edges softening in the falling snow.
Somewhere out there, G is watching. Planning. Maybe even smiling.
Logan's reflection appears beside mine in the glass. Not touching. Not speaking. Just there.
You're not alone in this.
The words echo in my chest, warring with every instinct that's kept me alive this long.
Because I want to believe him. Want to trust the safety he offers, the strength of his team, the promise in his eyes.
But I've seen what happens to people who try to help me.
I've buried too many promises already.
So I stay silent, watching the snow fall, feeling the heat of Logan's presence behind me. The pull between us is magnetic, undeniable—a force as strong as gravity and twice as dangerous.
But I don't turn around.
I can't.
Because if I do—if I let myself believe in the shelter of his arms or the safety of his promises—I might forget why I have to keep running.
And right now, that distance is the only thing keeping us both alive.