Chapter 5 Sin
FIVE
SIN
Morning comes quiet out here, the kind of quiet that makes you listen harder.
I wake before the sun clears the tree line.
Not because I slept well. Because I didn’t.
My body spent the night in a half-alert, half-hell state, every instinct tuned to the softest sound in the house.
A floorboard creak. A branch tapping glass.
The subtle shift of Rowan’s breathing when she rolled over.
I sat upright against the headboard for hours, watching the door, watching the window, watching her.
That part was the problem.
The window I can handle.
The door I can handle.
Rowan curled under the blanket with her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled silk and her face finally unclenched, that’s what wrecked me.
I’ve done hostage recovery in places that didn’t have names on maps. I’ve held security perimeters while bullets chewed through concrete. I’ve slept in mud, snow, and sand. I don’t get rattled by discomfort. But last night, in a warm bed I wasn’t supposed to share, I had one thought on repeat.
Kiss her.
Just once.
Just to see if her mouth is as sharp as her words. Just to see if she’d melt or fight or both. Just to see if I could forget, for one reckless second, that I’m here to protect her, not want her.
Obviously, I didn’t touch her. In fact, I didn’t move. I watched her sleep and hated myself for how much I liked the peace on her face. Now I’m in the hallway, moving through the safe house with a weapon that’s not visible but is always there, tucked into my waistband, familiar as my own pulse.
The house is built for this. Thick walls. Minimal windows on the ground floor. Heavy curtains. Deadbolts that slide smooth. A security panel in the closet near the entry, tied into cameras and motion sensors that cover the property line. Whoever designed it knew what kind of people would use it.
People like me.
I check the back door first. Lock. Frame.
No scuffs. I scan the kitchen window, press my fingers lightly to the glass, feeling for vibration or looseness.
It’s solid. I check the pantry next. Canned goods lined up with military neatness.
Rice. Beans. Protein bars. Electrolyte packets.
Coffee. Tea. A bag of flour no one will touch unless the world ends.
The fridge is stocked too. Eggs. Bacon. Chicken breasts.
Greek yogurt. Fresh fruit. A gallon of milk.
A carton of orange juice that looks optimistic.
I open the freezer. Ice. Frozen vegetables. A couple vacuum-sealed steaks.
Good.
If we have to sit here for days, we can do it without eating like we’re in a prison movie.
I move room to room, quiet steps, senses wide. The living room smells faintly of cedar and clean linen. The air has that cool bite of early morning, the house still holding onto night. Outside, birds start up in the trees, chirping like they’ve never heard of human violence.
I check the windows. Curtains closed. Latches intact.
Rowan’s door is shut, as it should be.
My chest tightens anyway but I keep moving. When I hit the kitchen again, my phone buzzes against my hip. I pull it out and see the group thread.
Colt: Morning. Update. Also important question. How’s it going with the girl?
Jace: Fallen in love yet?
Crewe: Ignore them. We have movement on the D.C. consultancy tie.
I exhale, rubbing my thumb once across the screen, and then type back.
Me: I’m not in love. Focus.
Another buzz.
Banks: Pulled records on A. Shaw. Old DoD contractor. Off books. Shell layers deep. Name pops near a “Prospect” property buy years back.
My jaw sets hard enough to ache. Prospect again. That word keeps surfacing like a body that won’t stay sunk.
Nash: We’re heading to a storage unit tied to the shell. If it’s a dead end, we pivot. Elena’s people wired funds already. Enough to keep us in the hunt. Tell your principal thanks.
I stare at that for a beat.
Elena Sands doesn’t do half measures. She said she’d send resources, and she did. Money, contacts, probably a few favors that will cost her later. She’s playing this like a chess match, sacrificing pawns to protect her queen.
Rowan.
I don’t love that metaphor, because Rowan isn’t anyone’s pawn, but it’s how Elena thinks. I type back.
Me: Copy. Move smart. Don’t get tunnel vision. Check in.
Colt responds immediately.
Colt: Is she pretty though?
My grip tightens on the phone.
Pretty.
The word is too small. Too lazy. Like describing a hurricane as “breezy.” Rowan is pretty, sure. Long brown hair that catches light like copper when she moves. Warm brown eyes that miss nothing and make you feel seen even when she’s cracking jokes. Lips that were made for trouble.
But it isn’t just her face. It’s her brain.
The way she connects dots. The way her humor shows up right when fear tries to take the wheel.
The way she fights to keep control even when the ground shifts under her.
She’s brave. Not the loud, reckless kind.
The quiet kind that keeps showing up even when it hurts.
However, I don’t text any of that.
Me: She’s under my protection. That’s all you need to know.
Jace sends a laughing emoji that I ignore on principle.
I set the phone face down on the counter and start moving again, this time with purpose.
Breakfast. Rowan needs fuel. Protein. Something real in her stomach. She can live on sarcasm, but it won’t keep her steady if we have to run.
I pull a skillet from the cabinet, light the burner, and crack eggs into a bowl.
The sound in the quiet kitchen is loud. Shell against ceramic.
Whisk scraping. Butter hitting hot metal with a soft hiss.
Coffee goes on next. Drip machine. Fresh grounds.
The smell starts to bloom, dark and rich, and the house feels less like a bunker.
I slice fruit while the eggs cook. A banana.
Strawberries. Bacon in a second pan, because fat and salt do wonders for morale.
As I move, I think about last night again. Her voice when she asked me to stay. Not demanding. Not manipulating. Honest.
Please.
The way she looked at me like I was the only solid thing left in her world. I’ve been looked at like that before. Usually by people in shock. People who are one breath away from breaking. It’s not flattering. It’s a burden.
With Rowan, it felt different. Like she hated needing me, but trusted me anyway.
I flip the eggs, keeping my face neutral even though no one’s here to see it.
My phone buzzes again.
Crewe: Storage unit could be a lead. Paper trail shows payments from a nonprofit that matches Rowan’s story. Might be crossover between your case and ours.
I stare at the message, heat rising in my chest. I should be there. I should be on the ground with them, boots in dirt, helping kick doors, verify intel, keeping my brothers alive.
Instead I’m making eggs in a safe house kitchen. The thought tastes bitter. Then I glance down the hallway. Rowan’s door is still closed. And I remember the text on her phone.
You can’t hide behind soldiers forever.
Whoever sent it wanted her afraid. They succeeded. But not enough. Not while I’m here.
I type back.
Me: Keep me updated. If you confirm link to Rowan’s case, send everything. We’ll adjust.
I toss the phone aside and plate the food. Eggs folded soft. Bacon crisp. Fruit on the side. Coffee poured into a mug. I’m setting the plate on the table when I hear a soft shuffle in the hallway.
Rowan appears in the entryway like a question mark.
She’s barefoot, hair mussed, wearing an oversized T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder like it has no respect for my blood pressure. Her eyes are half-lidded, still hazy with sleep, and her face looks younger without the armor on.
She blinks at me, then at the table. “Is that… breakfast?” she asks, voice rough.
“Yes.”
Her nose scrunches. “You cook?”
“I can feed myself.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I lean back against the counter, watching her cross the kitchen slowly, like her body is still negotiating with gravity. She rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand, then looks at me again.
Something in her expression shifts as she takes me in. She remembers last night. So do I. My chest tightens.
She clears her throat. “Hi.”
“Hey. Hungry?”
Rowan stares at the eggs like they’re holy. “I’m starving,” she admits.
“Eat.”
She picks up the fork, then pauses. Her gaze flicks to me again. “Did you sleep?”
A simple question but it’s loaded as hell.
I keep my voice even. “Enough.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “That sounds like a lie.”
I arch a brow. “Don’t start.”
She smirks, then takes a bite of the eggs. Her eyes close for a second, like the taste is bringing her back to life.
I should look away. Fuck. I don’t. Instead, I watch her chew, watch the tension ease out of her shoulders by degrees. She’s safe right now. In this kitchen. With me. The thought does something to me. Something primal.
She opens her eyes and looks at me over the rim of her coffee mug. “You’re staring.”
“I’m assessing.”
“Assessing what?”
I choose my words carefully. “Whether you’re going to crash later. Adrenaline wears off.”
Her gaze holds mine, too steady for someone who just woke up. “And?”
“You need to stay strong.”
Her mouth curves. “So you made me eggs?”
“Yes.”
“That’s kind of… sweet.”
“It’s practical.”
“Sure,” she says, not buying it. “Practical eggs. Very tactical.”
I feel the corner of my mouth threaten to lift. I stop it.
Rowan eats another bite, then gestures with her fork toward my phone on the counter. “Your brothers?”
“Yeah.”
She swallows. “They okay?”
“They’re breathing.”
“That’s your version of reassurance?”
“It’s the only kind that matters.”
She studies me for a beat, then looks down at her plate again. “What did they find?”
I hesitate.
Rowan looks up immediately, catching it. “Sin.”
“Rowan.”
“Don’t ‘Rowan’ me. You can trust me.”
I laugh. “Trust an investigative journalist?” I raise a brow.
“Everything between us is off the record. Promise.” She steps closer. “I really want you to trust me. You’ve done so much for me.”
I push off the counter and move closer, keeping my voice low. “They found a consultancy tie out of D.C. Name on some old paperwork. Contractor type. Off-book operations.”
Her grip tightens on the fork. “Sounds dirty and messy.”
“Yeah, it is. They’re chasing it now.”
Rowan’s expression hardens, then softens again, like her mind is racing but her body is tired of fear. “And my mother?” she asks quietly. “Is she helping them because of me?”
I nod once. “She said she would. She already did. Funding hit their account last night. Resources too.”
Rowan’s lips part slightly, surprise flickering. “Of course she did.”
There’s something in her tone. Complicated. Love tangled with frustration.
“She cares,” I say, because it’s true.
Rowan’s laugh is soft, almost bitter. “She cares like a general cares about a mission.”
I don’t argue. Elena Sands has that cold precision. But she’s still moving heaven and earth for her daughter.
Rowan takes another bite, then her gaze drifts to me again. Slow. Measuring. “You look… tired,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
She lifts her brows. “Liar.”
I stare at her.
She smiles around her coffee mug, smug and adorable in a way that should be illegal this early.
I shake my head once, a quiet warning to myself. Danger. Not the kind with guns. The kind with pretty brown eyes and a smart mouth and a brave heart.
Rowan sets the mug down and studies me like she’s about to poke at something sensitive. “Last night,” she starts, then stops.
My pulse ticks once, hard. “What about it?”
She swallows. “Thank you. For staying.”
I nod, because if I speak, I might say something I shouldn’t.
Her gaze drops to the table, then back up. “I didn’t have nightmares.”
A small confession. It hits me harder than it should. My chest tightens, sharp and protective. “Good,” I manage.
Rowan’s eyes hold mine, warm and open, and for a second the kitchen feels too small, the air too thick.
My mind flashes back to her asleep beside me. The curve of her mouth. The way her hair fell across her cheek. The insane urge to lean down and taste that softness.
I grip the back of the chair she’s sitting in, knuckles tightening. Control. I need control.
Rowan’s voice is quiet now. “Are you always this… intense in the morning?”
“Yes,” I say.
She smiles, softer. “I don’t mind it.”
That’s the problem. I do. Because I can feel the edge of something dangerous forming between us, something that could distract me. Something that could get her hurt if I let it.
I force my gaze away from her mouth and back to her eyes. “Finish eating.”
Rowan’s smile lingers as she takes another bite. And I realize, with a certainty that tastes like trouble, that protecting her body is the easy part. Protecting my own discipline is going to be the fight.