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Elliot spent the night on Sydney’s bed, lying curled near the little girl that had somehow managed to steal a huge chunk of her heart. Deacon slept on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. Every time she shifted in her sleep, the pain in her ribs would wake her, and she’d find herself listening for his breath, wondering if he was asleep. Dawn seemed to come far too soon and yet, honestly, not soon enough.
Careful not to wake Sydney, she slipped downstairs to the kitchen in search of coffee and pain meds. The kitchen was quiet, empty. She breathed a sigh of relief, quick to cross to the coffee machine while the reprieve lasted. The light was still on, the half-full pot still hottish. She didn’t think she’d ever been so grateful for who-knows-how-old coffee in her life.
The cup had barely been warming her hands for a minute before the door swung open and King walked in. A quick, hot swallow smothered the groan on her lips.
“She returns,” he taunted quietly, following in Elliot’s footsteps from door to coffeemaker to retrieve his own morning caffeine.
A shaft of something very close to regret made her squirm. It was too early in the morning to deal with this—she hadn’t even had her ibuprofen yet. She reached for the jar she’d left on the counter last night, poured a couple of pills into her palm, and swallowed them dry. “You know why I couldn’t tell you, King. Couldn’t tell anyone.”
“Dain knew.”
And that bothered him, she could see. Like any family, the dynamics varied among the members. Dain was their father figure and the one Elliot was closest to, but King...he was her brother. They related to each other in a way the open, grounded, family-oriented Saint couldn’t. King, more than any of the others, would see this as a betrayal.
“If it makes you feel any better, he had to get me falling-down drunk to drag it out of me.”
King took a sip, his chiseled face hard as granite. “It doesn’t.”
“King.”
Another sip.
Moving close, Elliot dared to lay a hand flat on her teammate’s broad chest.
He refused to look at her, staring intently into the black depths of his cup instead. Elliot thanked heaven for being short for once and ducked under his chin, interrupting the view. “I’m sorry. I wanted to keep you safe.”
King’s light blue eyes narrowed. “You wanted to keep you safe.”
The words hurt. They were true to a certain extent, but not totally. She fisted her hand in the soft fabric of his T-shirt and gave it a jerk. “I watched my mother and stepdad get into a car and get blown into a billion pieces. Coming from the man who plays most of his past very close to his chest, you don’t have much cause to judge.” She knew he came from wealth, knew his family was in the upper echelon of society somewhere, but had never cared enough to look them up—King was important, not his past. She’d certainly never dug into his secrets. He told what he felt comfortable telling, and that didn’t include why he’d left his old life behind. “We all have secrets, but I care about you. I care about all of you; you’re the only family I’ve had since I was thirteen years old. I’d be damned if I saw you murdered like I saw my mother.”
King closed his eyes. For a moment she thought the grinding of his jaw meant he would continue to argue, but then his hand rose to cover hers, forcing it hard against his chest. “We love you too, little Otter. We’ll do anything to keep you safe.”
She didn’t want them risking their lives for hers. The fierce glint in King’s eyes when he opened them warned her not to argue.
And damn if she didn’t feel tears stinging at the back of her nose again. Was all this emotion never going to go away?
King dropped her hand and raised his cup to his mouth, but he didn’t drink. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear an apology cross your lips.”
Something in her relaxed at his words. If he was okay enough to tease her, then they would be okay. Eventually. “And if you tell anyone you heard it now, I might have to kick your ass.”
“Language,” King reminded her. The word was echoed perfectly by Saint as he walked into the kitchen.
“Great, surround sound.” Elliot retreated to lean against the counter.
Saint retrieved a cup from the cabinet. “Where’s my apology, then?”
Elliot buried her face in the faint steam still rising from her coffee. “I’m sorry, all right?”
Saint stopped, coffeepot lifted to fill his mug, to gawk at her. “That is the sorriest ‘sorry’ I’ve ever heard. My three-year-old niece does better than that.”
She glanced over at him from beneath her lashes. “Maybe the next time you manage to win a sparring match against me, I’ll give you a better one.”
King hooted. “He’s never won against you.”
She lifted a brow at him. Exactly my point.
Saint started to respond, but the kitchen door opened just in time to stop him. Jack and Conlan entered. Both men’s dark eyes zeroed in on her like junkyard dogs who’d sighted a particularly annoying trespasser.
And the morning just keeps getting better.
She threw King and Saint a look, wishing they were anywhere but here, witnessing the set down she knew she was about to receive. There was no hope for it, though; she always took her fucking lumps. After setting her coffee regretfully on the counter, she turned and brought herself to attention.
Jack came to stand in front of her, Con to one side. “Elliot.”
His tone shot steel through her spine. “Yes, sir.”
He shook his dark head, expression unreadable. “You always have been unusual.”
She couldn’t really argue with that
“You’ve done a good job for us, always, despite your...idiosyncrasies.”
“Like putting clients on their asses?” Saint asked.
“Yes, Saint, like putting clients on their asses.” Conlan’s words were slow, sarcastic. Saint grinned.
“Seems to have worked well for her in the long run, at least in that case,” King added.
What did that mean? King could not be insinuating that Deacon cared about her. It couldn’t be true. Deacon enjoyed the sex; that was all. He probably felt some affection, sure, but he’d loved his wife, and Elliot was nothing like Julia Walsh had been, at least as far as she could tell. Deacon would want that again, not some fucked-up warrior woman who’d never even had a tea party before.
You have now, remember?
And it was a memory she’d cherish long after Deacon and Sydney forgot her name.
“Do you two mind letting me handle my own reprimand?” Jack barked.
“No, sir.”
Elliot swore sometimes that Saint and King were twins. How they managed to synchronize comebacks so often was beyond her. Or maybe great minds really did think alike.
She glanced at the two men, leaning back against the countertop, matching smirks on their faces. I wouldn’t quite go as far as ‘“great minds.”
She had her own small grin under control when Jack turned back to her. One look and she was swallowing more than amusement, though. She hadn’t realized until this moment what it would mean if Jack fired her. Yes, her team had accepted her back into the fold, but ultimately they worked at the pleasure of their boss. If Jack dismissed her, none of them would have recourse.
The kitchen door opened, admitting Deacon and Fionn. A hot wash of shame filled her as she looked at the two men. Fionn wore a loose-fitting button-down, probably to avoid lifting his arm and aggravating the stab wound below his collarbone. When he turned his head to survey the room, she saw the bandage at the back of his skull. He’d had stitches there, she knew. He had a mild concussion too. And when their eyes met, the lingering awareness of his hands around her throat, him pinning her against the wall, stared back at her.
Fionn’s injuries might or might not have occurred if she’d been honest. And Deacon...well, he might or might not have continued to be with her if she’d been honest with him too. She’d taken those choices from them—for the best of reasons, but still, she’d deceived them all. And that was something she couldn’t get away from, no matter how many punches and kicks she took trying to erase it.
She brought her focus back to Jack. “If you feel I need to go, sir, then I will,” she said quietly.
Deacon’s attention snapped to her. A frown gathered around his mouth.
“I—we—want you to realize what you did wrong, Elliot.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “A team is only as strong as their weakest link, and though I never thought I’d say it of you, you are their weakest link right now.”
She flinched.
“You’re also part of the glue that holds them together,” Con added. “We recognize that, but it doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”
“We’re demoting you,” Jack said flatly. “King will move up to Dain’s second. You’ll be on probation for six months. I want details of every moment of your life, everything—names, dates, actions—in writing. I’ll be verifying all of it personally.”
And nothing would fool him now that the suspicion had taken root. Jack’s tech skills were legendary.
“I want to know what you ate for breakfast yesterday and who you talked to on the phone last week. Every. Thing. You’ve. Done. Is that clear?”
Wonder what he’ll say when he sees Deacon on the list of things I’ve done. “Yes, sir.”
“And because of Dain’s complicity, he will also be receiving a review,” Conlan told her. Her chest went so tight she could barely suck in a breath. That she’d brought her team down was almost too much to bear, but to put Dain’s integrity at risk?
And all because you were afraid. Was it worth it?
“He was trying to keep me safe.”
“Elliot.” Jack sighed as he ran a hand down the back of his neck. “When are you going to realize that Mansa doesn’t want to kill you; if he did, you’d’ve been dead when the first surveillance photo was taken. He wants you, no doubt about it, but not like he did your mother. With you, he’s retrieving a commodity. And if there’s anyone that can keep herself out of his grasp, it’s...guess who? You.” He leaned in until they were eye to eye. “Your mother trained you for this moment. Trust the gift she gave you. It comes with some side issues, but when push comes to shove, it’ll get you through.”
Would it? Elliot could do no more than nod. When Jack and Conlan moved toward the coffeepot, she allowed herself a full breath, then grabbed her own cup on the way to the door.
Fionn stepped into her path. “Elliot.”
She couldn’t look at him. She knew she should, knew she needed to apologize again, ask how he was, if there was anything she could do—all the polite shit people did when someone was hurt. But raising her eyes off his boots was impossible.
“Elliot, I’m wanting you to know, I get it,” Fionn said, quiet enough that the words were just between them. “Deac explained. I get it.”
But he was still wary; she’d seen it in his eyes. That was the consequence of her choices.
“Thanks, Fionn.” Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past him and into the hall. If only she could leave the roil of emotions inside her behind as easily.