THE MAN sat at the table with the others, silent and unmoving. They still hadn’t been found. Malvetti had called him, demanding to know where they were. Sure, like he was able to snap his fingers and make them appear. They were backed into a corner and couldn’t stay hidden forever. He just had to make sure he brought them in. He needed the leverage. He’d give Malvetti what he wanted, and then it would be over. Finally over….
Someone made a comment, and he narrowed his gaze to the cards he was holding, feeling a familiar excitement chase away the sick feeling in his belly. Pocket Jacks…. And he threw a few chips down.
“I HAVE to call someone,” Owen said into the absolute silence when Lucas’s grip became slack.
Mark seemed to shake himself to the present and tipped his head to the window. “You can’t go anywhere. The only way someone is going to get in here is with a helicopter. That means everyone will know. You heard him.”
“But—”
“I have no antibiotics,” Mark interrupted and wheeled himself into the kitchen. “Very true.”
He started opening cupboard doors and pounced on an unopened jar. “Get the kettle boiled and bring me the box of first aid supplies.”
Owen jumped up and hurried to help. He glanced at the jar Mark was examining. “Honey?” he said in amazement.
“Certain honeys have been used for years for their healing properties.”
“But—”
“And I was sent two of these by my friend.” He sighed. “Doctor Jeremy Highland is a skin specialist in Sydney, Australia. He moved there with his family last year. I sometimes have trouble with infection.” He nodded at his legs. “I had an antibiotic-resistant ulcer for a long time, and Jer sent me some Manuka honey.”
Owen gaped, still not sure the man hadn’t lost his mind. But Mark went on. “Manuka honey is increasing in popularity because antibiotic-resistant infections are on the rise.” He wheeled himself back to the couch. “It worked for me.”
“But what if it doesn’t work for Lucas?” Owen asked pointedly.
Mark sighed. “I’ll make you a deal. If he’s no better in six hours or the infection is spreading, I will dial 911 myself.” He lifted Lucas’s T-shirt. The skin was red around the padding. “Pass me the Sharpie from the table.”
Owen did as he was asked, and Mark drew a line where the redness had spread to. Owen understood what he was doing. “Now, we wash the wound in salt water and slather honey on the sterile pad.” He looked ruefully down at Lucas. “One way or the other, we’ll soon know what we have to do.”
AS NIGHTS went, it was one of the longest of Owen’s life, and that included the night he’d spent with Mia in his arms after Damien had killed Mary. Mia slept in Mark’s bed. Bailey slept on the floor right next to her.
Owen didn’t sleep, and neither did Mark. They both stayed awake and watched for any sign that Lucas was worsening.
Sometime around three in the morning, Owen stripped all the covers off Lucas at Mark’s direction and wiped a cool wet cloth over Lucas’s fiery skin—his face, his neck, his chest. He repeated the movements time and again until Mark finally said to stop for a while.
Then he just sat and held Lucas’s hand. He was in danger of falling asleep himself when he felt Mark’s fingers curl around his wrist, and he opened his eyes.
Except the fingers belonged to Lucas. He was looking at him with fever-bright eyes. He licked his lips, and Owen smiled. “Do you want a drink?” He held the water bottle to Lucas’s lips, and he swallowed greedily, letting go of Owen’s wrist. He sensed Mark move behind him, but Mark remained silent.
“I’m sorry,” Lucas groaned. “I—”
“Hush.” Without thinking, Owen placed his finger over Lucas’s lips. Lucas quieted instantly, and Owen, shocked at his own daring, smiled apologetically. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He withdrew his finger, but Lucas grabbed his wrist again.
“I can’t seem to stop touching you.” Lucas said it like it was a puzzle. Something to be worked out, wondered over.
Owen had no answer, and he was very conscious of Mark sitting just behind him. “We’ve been through a lot in a few days. Trauma makes people close.”
Lucas just gazed at him. “Did I tell you that you remind me of Niall?”
Owen nodded. He wasn’t sure he liked being reminded of a child. “Your neighbor. I’m sorry he died.”
“So was I,” Lucas whispered. He tightened his fingers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Owen’s heart sank, though he didn’t know why. He should be praising any higher being that existed that someone had sent Lucas to the campground that day. He also had no doubt that an hour after Damien got to him again, he would be dead. It was selfish to want more. Selfish and completely irrational. He should be grateful Lucas thought of him as a friend, not disappointed because he didn’t see him as anything else. Owen touched his forehead. Lucas seemed cooler, and he drew a shaky relieved breath.
He risked a glance back at Mark, who simply nodded, showing he understood. He glanced back at Lucas, whose eyes were closing, and confident that Lucas wouldn’t remember, he slid his palm up to cup Lucas’s cheek. Lucas’s eyes finally slid shut, and he didn’t open them again. Owen counted another few heartbeats, luxuriating in the feel of stubble beneath his fingers. His hand slid lower until he could feel the thud of Lucas’s heartbeat. It was settling, reaffirming, and so very vital. Then Lucas sighed and turned his head, rubbing his cheek against Owen’s hand. Owen stilled. He might have even stopped breathing. But after what seemed like forever, the only pulse he could hear thudding in his ears was his own.
OWEN YAWNED, and awareness rushed in. He’d fallen asleep. And somehow, he was lying on the couch with his back flush against a very warm, very male body. He prayed he could get up while Lucas still slept, and he opened his eyes cautiously to the dim dawn light. At least there was no sign of Mark, though he heard water running in the bathroom. He tried to slide out from under Lucas’s arm that was flung over him, but it perceptibly tightened, and he felt a gust of breath on the back of his neck.
Owen stilled. He assumed Lucas was still asleep and didn’t want him to wake up while they were both in this position. It was way too awkward. But instead of moving like he should, he seemed to sink further into Lucas’s warmth.
He tried to think about Lucas dispassionately. Mark had said trauma brought people closer, and that was true, but taking out all the shit that had happened to him in the last few months didn’t alter the fact that he was very attracted to Lucas. Capability was his Achilles’ heel, and Lucas had it in spades. Cocooned in warmth and safety, he could dream. And for the first time in a long time, his body was getting on board with the dream. Or certain parts of it were. To say he’d lost any inclination or desire in the last year was putting it mildly.
Not that it had seemed to bother Damien. His demands hadn’t lessened in the least. And as much as Owen never wanted to remember, it seemed he couldn’t forget.
“Shh.”
Owen tried not to shudder as Damien’s finger traced the edge of his jaw, and his eyes strayed to the man crouched on the floor—shaking, sweating, pleading for his life almost incoherently. The stain on the man’s pants where he had pissed himself when Damien shoved the gun into his mouth, was spreading.
Owen was expecting to see blood, but the empty click of the gun had been even more shocking. Damien’s laugh, however, hadn’t been. Then the second sound, a round from Paulo’s gun with the silencer attached, had been almost anticlimactic. Damien’s fingers pressed on Owen’s cheek, making him look when he tried to turn away as the man slumped lifelessly to the floor.
“See,” Damien demanded. “See what happens when fools think to betray me.”
Owen just nodded. He knew. And barely a minute later, Damien had made him strip and fucked him, just to make doubly sure he would always remember.
Owen blinked the horror away and shivered, shrinking back into the comforting heat behind him. He ought to go see if Mia was okay. But then, just as his brain was trying to send the instruction to his body, he became aware of the absolute silence behind him and knew Lucas was awake. He very gently—because he didn’t want to touch Lucas’s dressing—turned onto his back. He’d never been especially brave. He’d only done things he’d been forced into, first by his parents and then by Damien. So he honestly had no idea why he was turning to look at Lucas instead of getting up and putting some distance between them.
Lucas was gazing at him. Mark had announced some hours ago that they had gotten the better of the infection, and while it would take a few more days to really clear up, it shouldn’t worsen. Owen didn’t remember making a conscious decision to lie down. Maybe he never had. Maybe his body had just gravitated to the person who had kept them safe, or maybe his body had totally different reasons. He wasn’t hard, but it wouldn’t take much.
“I should move,” Owen said cautiously. If Lucas had lifted his arm or nodded or done anything to say he agreed with that statement, Owen would have been off the couch like a rocket, but Lucas just smiled.
“I think you’ve earned the right to be lazy for a few minutes, and there isn’t anywhere else you can go.” Which was true enough. One couch. One bed.
“I don’t want it to be awkward,” Owen argued.
“Absolutely not,” Lucas agreed.
“And you’re not worried?”
“About what?” Lucas smiled again. “I don’t think you’re going to squash me. I think it’s you who should be worried.” Owen tried to decide if Lucas was being deliberately obtuse or simply unaware that Owen might be viewing Lucas as something other than his protector.
“How are you feeling?”
Lucas’s smile fell. “Ashamed. Confused. Angry with myself. Bitter.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“I know,” Lucas agreed. “But you heard everything yesterday. I was wrong, and I don’t know how to start trying to make it right. I’m not sure it isn’t too late.”
But no matter how bitter Lucas had been, Owen thought he now hated himself more than he had once thought he hated his brother. The guilt he had felt for so long had probably been a little easier to bear when he could blame Mark. Now that target was gone, and he was back to blaming himself and hating what he had accused his brother of. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you.”
“I just feel like such a failure. And I have no one to blame but myself.”
Lucas eased himself onto his side a little, but not once did he move his arm—the one still very firmly around Owen—although there wasn’t really anywhere else he could put it. The leather couch was huge, but there were two of them on it.
Owen waited for Lucas to elaborate. “We were having problems. Tory even moved back in with her folks over Christmas, but then she found out she was pregnant and we decided to try again. She hated my job,” Lucas added. “And it wasn’t just the odd hours and the danger.” He was silent for a few seconds, as if he was trying to sort things out in his head. “Firefighting isn’t just a job. It’s a way of life. I’m actually the only one on my team who doesn’t come from a firefighting family. Well, except for Jacko. But to outsiders, I guess it can be a little overwhelming. We live and work with each other, and then, when we get days off, we’re generally in and out of each other’s houses. All the wives are friends. It makes sense because only the wife of a firefighter understands what another firefighter’s wife is going through.”
“Like cops,” Owen agreed.
“Except Tory didn’t like that. Her dad was in the Army, and they had moved a lot when she was a kid. You’d think she’d want to put down roots, but when I inherited the house, I think she wanted me to fix it up, then sell it. She craved city life. But it would have strangled me.”
“You inherited it?”
Lucas nodded. “From my uncle Eric. Mom’s brother.”
“You’ve never mentioned any family.” Then again, up to yesterday, Owen hadn’t known Lucas had a brother.
“My mom and dad were in their late thirties when they met. Both their parents were dead, and my mom just had a younger brother. They were stunned when my mom got pregnant with Mark right away, and then had me four years after. What I didn’t know was she was diagnosed with breast cancer just after I was born. It was treated successfully.” He paused. “But it came back when I was eleven. She died when I was a junior. Dad struggled for a long time, and the day I graduated high school, I got a call from my uncle Eric to tell me Dad was dead.”
Owen gasped. “An accident?”
Lucas shook his head. “No, a bullet. I didn’t even know Dad owned a gun.”
“Suicide?” Owen whispered, completely horrified.
Lucas nodded. “He left a note apologizing to us both, but saying he knew we would be okay. He’d even dialed 911 before he pulled the trigger to make sure I didn’t find him, and he went into the garage so there would be no mess in the house.” Lucas said the words lightly, but Owen couldn’t imagine how heartbreaking it must have been. “Mark was determined to be a doctor even then and was halfway through his degree. I was thinking about being a cop, but I hadn’t really decided, and anyway, everything was arranged for college. The note said he had waited until we were settled, but that he couldn’t bear to spend another day without Mom.”
“I am so sorry,” Owen said and clutched Lucas’s hand.
He heaved a sigh. “So was I, but as hard as it was, I understood. My dad wasn’t strong. He had chronic arthritis and he was tired. He once told me there was one perfect person for everyone and that someday, we would both understand how amazing it is when you find them, and that you should never, ever, let them go.”
Tory. Except Lucas hadn’t let her go; she had left. Owen wished he hadn’t asked.
“Mark went to medical school, and we didn’t run into each other much. I never even realized or thought about the fact I had never seen him with a girl.”
He was there. He’d said he was at the fire. How had that happened? And as if Owen had asked the question aloud, Lucas started talking. “Because we’re such a small station, we help out on other calls when we’re not fighting forest fires. We were the third engine because the motel was so big.” He swallowed. “I saw Mark’s truck. It was parked out front, and one side of the motel was fully ablaze when we pulled up. Jacko knew what I’d seen, right away. He recognized Mark’s Chevy, and he tackled me before I could run into the flames. It took two of them to bring me down,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “It seemed like forever before we could go in, and I wasn’t allowed, anyway.”
Lucas paused for a few seconds, as if deep in the memory. “He was one of the few to be rescued alive, and I went in the ambulance with him. I’d texted Tory a few times to let her know I wouldn’t be home on time. I didn’t want another fight. We’d had enough of those,” he added. “I thought she was still pissed at me when I never got a reply, but I waited while they operated. Mark had fallen awkwardly, and a huge splinter had embedded itself in his back. I stayed with him for nine hours until Cassidy and Jacko came in with the cops. I thought they were there about the fire—” Lucas’s voice caught. “But they were there to tell me who else they had identified.”
Lucas turned his head, and they both heard noise from the doorway. Mark sat there, frozen, agony gouged on every line on his face. “I went home,” Lucas continued, looking at his brother. “Jacko nearly had to carry me from the hospital. I wanted to stay, but I was in no condition to. Then I got home and saw Tory’s note. Since you were there, I assumed you were the man she was running away with. I didn’t even notice all the blank spaces on the walls until the day after.” They stayed silent, both looking at each other, both mired in regret and loss. “It was easier,” Lucas admitted. “It was easier blaming you than blaming myself.”
Bailey whined and Owen stood, practically pushing Bailey toward the door and grabbing Lucas’s jacket on the way. As he closed the door behind him, he only hoped there wouldn’t be another fight while he was gone.