14. Gwen
Gwen
I’m not sure how long I’ve been curled up on the couch, tucked under a blanket with my hands T-rexed under my chin like that’s going to coax sleep into coming.
But every time I shut my eyes, I end up back in that room.
Not with the men, but with her. That woman’s face, her smug certainty, the way she knew exactly what stealing my rig meant.
The bomb might’ve been fake. What she can do with access to my programs? Terrifyingly real.
I shift for the hundredth time and freeze, not wanting to worry Easton. He’s already carrying too much. So I try to hold still. To bind myself to something that isn’t in this room.
Maybe I can if-things-were-different my way into a world where we’re on a team vacation. Salt in the air, the scent of coconut sunscreen, and the distant crash of waves just close enough to hear. My little sister building a sandcastle with Dad and Natasha. And as for Easton, well . . .
His words from upstairs slip through my mind, managing to put me at ease more than my “fakecation” mirage.
I was always coming back to you.
Latching on to that line, I replay it over and over again, and my mind finally softens, the chaos swirling around now like background noise.
My limbs go heavy, then my thoughts, like someone is dimming light switches one by one in my mind.
I finally pass out, but as I do, I don’t go to that beach. I’m somewhere dark, and that darkness swallows me whole.
I’m running in place, and my feet slam into nothing. No floor or ground. Just an endless treadmill of terror I can’t escape. My lips are sealed shut, so I can’t cry out for help.
Easton sees me, but he can only reach out, and the gap grows between us until—
“Gwen, hey, you’re okay. Just a dream.” Easton’s voice is low and urgent, and when I blink awake, it’s like surfacing from being underwater.
My chest clinches tight, and my ribs squeeze inward like an invisible fist closing around me as I try to slow my wild breathing.
Why in the world is Easton on the floor by the couch, his hands wrapped around my wrists?
Heat flashes up the back of my neck, and embarrassment mixed with fear becomes messy and indistinguishable. “What happened?”
“Nightmare.” His grip is steady but cautious, like he’s not sure whether he needs to keep restraining me or go back to reassuring me everything is fine. Maybe both.
He slowly lowers my arms, like he’s only letting go when he’s sure I’m back in my body and out of that hellhole I now remember being in. Where demons were chasing me in my sleep. Only slightly less frightening than real flesh-and-blood men who like to hurt women for sport.
He pushes to his feet to stand, and panic flares inside me. I grab his hand. “Can you just sit with me for a second?”
He stares at our linked hands, and there’s a flicker of hesitation there. Duty versus something else. Something I’m pretty sure I witnessed him struggling with in the past, but I refused to notice before.
His shoulders slant in surrender, and he tosses the blanket aside and sits. I have two choices: crawl onto his lap, which has become my new favorite grounding mechanism, or attempt to make jokes in hopes the tried-and-true defense mechanism can help me calm down and smile.
Right now, option two feels like someone is asking me to code without music in my ears—damn near impossible.
With reality officially slamming into me, I make up my mind: neither. I don’t want his legs to go numb if I sit on his lap. But I’m craving some connection. So, instead, I lean my head against his shoulder. He’s solid beneath my cheek, warm through the cotton of his shirt.
He releases my hand only long enough to hook his arm under my legs, pulling them over to rest on his. His palm settles warm and heavy across my thighs like an anchor, a promise I didn’t ask for but needed.
“Thank you,” I whisper as the wall clock ticks its steady rhythm, loud enough to feel like the sound is coming from inside my skull.
“Of course.”
“At least my hearing is back to normal,” I share as if he’s attuned to my inner thoughts.
His smile comes and goes fast. “Good.” His thumb traces slow circles over the cotton of my sweats. “Your dad and the others will be here any second. Carter texted, and they’re driving here now.”
I must’ve passed out for longer than I thought.
He pats my thigh once, then again, like he’s unsure about staying in this position for long with my dad on his way. “Do you want to talk about the nightmare?”
“It wasn’t about what happened to me.” I’m sure that’s where his mind is at. “Just a bad dream.” I lift my head to look at him. “You learn anything while I was asleep? I assume you’ve talked to Carter aside from him letting you know he’s en route. Everyone at Falcon safe and secure?”
“I have, and they are,” he acknowledges, his fingertips curling into a fist on my thigh.
“Julian and Natasha canvassed the island, but they have no idea who they’re looking for outside of a brunette in her early forties.
It’s late, so they said there aren’t too many people outside, but my guess?
Jezebel’s already gone. Probably left by boat. ”
Maybe Zoey was right to want to go back?
“What about the compound? Did they get an aerial view of the place with satellites?”
Easton shifts my legs to the side and rises. Not a good sign.
“It’s gone.”
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” He turns his back to me before I can finish my question. What a useless waste of perfectly good air quotes. “What is it you aren’t telling me?”
He drags his fingers through his hair, and his back lifts with a sharp inhalation. “Multiple missiles were launched,” he says upon an exhale, his voice hoarse. “A targeted strike. The entire place was blown off the map.”
“I don’t understand.” I steady my hands next to me and push off the cushions to stand.
“It was a sanctioned hit.” He slowly faces me. “Australian Defence Command authorized the action.”
Now I know why the color is gone from his face.
But how? Or, more like, why?
“A falsified maritime distress call was made indicating patrol boats were under fire from somewhere on the island. Their analysts saw weapons on the satellite feed that weren’t actually there.
The Australian’s Hobart-class destroyer was already on station outside territorial waters.
The decision came down to launch a Tomahawk strike on the compound and eliminate the threat,” he explains fast. “They found out too late that both the call and the intel were fake.”
I start to tear my hands through my hair, but dammit, it’s braided. With my self-soothing efforts thwarted, I drop my palms to my stomach.
“It wasn’t incompetence on their part. Brass did what most would’ve done in that situation. They believed they were about to be attacked, so . . .” He shakes his head. “At least no one innocent was hurt. But there was obviously something there Jezebel never wanted anyone to get their hands on.”
“Who the hell is this woman? How is it possible she got to me and knows about Falcon? And could dupe an entire country’s defense systems?” Shock takes me back down to the couch. “I—I don’t understand.”
Easton drops next to me and loops his arm behind my back, drawing me to his side. “I don’t know, but we’re going to find—”
“They’re here,” Zoey calls out, and I look over to see her in the doorway of the living room.
Easton helps me stand, and my heart races faster than I can code as we start for the front door. She has it open and waiting for us when we get there, and the second I see my dad exiting the SUV, my knees buckle.
I slap my hand to the doorframe for support, and Dad springs into action and starts for me. Easton steps to the side as my dad hauls me into his arms, crushing me against him.
“Gwen.” He cups the back of my head, holding me tight while getting emotional on me as if he just learned I’m alive. Maybe seeing is believing?
A rattling sound comes from my chest as I break down and lose it, too. I’m no longer a twenty-seven-year-old adult capable of taking down governments with a few keystrokes. As I cry out, “Daddy,” I’m just a scared and relieved girl in the safety of her father’s arms.
I start to sink to my knees, but he catches me, keeping me upright. “I’ve got you.” Without letting me go, he rasps, “Easton, I’ll never forget this. I’ll never forget what you did for my baby girl.”
I go through the motions. Hugs. Tears. All the things.
Dad’s “baby girl” lingers in the air. Something I bet is now locked in Easton’s mind as a reminder of who I am and who I’ll probably always be to him—his friend’s daughter.
“Glad you’re good.” Julian’s intimidating older brother approaches me after I’ve hugged Natasha and Carter.
No hug from Gideon, just a pat on the shoulder, which tracks.
He’s quite possibly the only man who scares me more than Carter.
Well, more than Carter used to. You know, before I saw his softer side.
Julian is the last to step forward, and he wraps me up in his arms like I’m important to him. I mean, maybe I am? As a friend, of course. And I probably shouldn’t peek around him mid-hug to see whether Easton’s watching, but I do it anyway.
He’s talking to Carter and Zoey, not even glancing our way. No jealousy, so that’s good, I suppose.
Zoey’s pretty green eyes narrow on me in apology next. She’s acting like she’s the one who strapped me to that chair herself. She needs a hug so she can stop feeling so bad for something that wasn’t her fault. Since I don’t take her for the hugging type, I won’t attempt to do that.
“I was terrified,” Julian admits, and he’s still holding on to me like I might float away. “I didn’t say that on the plane, but I lost my fuckin’ mind when I heard you were taken.”
Oh. I gulp. What do I say to that? Thank you? Or, um . . . “I’m okay.” Stellar response. “Thank you again for your help with my rig, and with trying to track me down.”
I slip free of his embrace, and he slides his hands down to my forearms, keeping hold of me. I can feel eyes on us now. Dad’s for sure. That protective, hovering energy I’ve come to know buzzes against my skin even from across the room.
“So, uh, how are you holding up?” Julian asks. “You look good considering . . .”
“I’m hanging in there,” I say with a shrug, as if what I survived is just another Monday.
From the corner of my eye, I spot Dad moving in beside us, and that’s Julian’s cue to take his hands off me, which he thankfully does.
We face my dad, and his eyes are red and exhausted.
He looks like he’s aged a decade since I saw him in Dubai.
Every hour I was missing is physically carved into his face.
Dad quietly stares at me, just watching me breathe. Watching me exist. And, no doubt, remembering what those men almost did to me.
“Does Mum know what happened? My brothers?”
He strokes his beard, eyes on the floor. “They’re protected, but I didn’t want to worry them.”
Thank you. I’d rather them not know about this. “Well, um, any more updates? Easton told me about what happened with the Australians, and that you have no photos of that woman, either.”
“Nothing new.” He shakes his head. “Unfortunately.”
“How’d they even get to me at the hotel? I know they had the server on the inside, who they killed in the lift, and eyes on me, but still, that’s crazy.”
Dad rests a hand on my shoulder and lightly squeezes. “I’d rather get you off this island than stand around and debrief. We can discuss everything in the air.”
This isn’t exactly a vacation, so we might as well leave as quickly as possible.
I tip my head toward the door, finally making eye contact with Easton as I do so.
His jaw is tight, hands buried in his pockets, and there’s something sharp and unspoken in his expression.
He looks at Julian, then over at Gideon.
Oh.
Ohhhh.
I stumble back as it clicks. You’re remembering that op.
The mission that involved Julian’s family that took down the bird and nearly killed us.
You’re not jealous of Julian, you just hate that Julian reminds you of what happened.
I bet that’s what it is. Maybe seeing them rubs salt into a wound he’ll never admit to out loud?
“Gwen, you good?” Dad’s voice pulls me back to him.
My stomach aches all over again for so many reasons. “I’m fine,” I sigh. “I’m just ready to get the bloody hell out of here.”