Which makes me wonder if I’m the reason Oliver’s dead.
Because you can bet more than anything I don’t believe a mugger in a back alley took out a man like Oliver and left him for dead.
There’s no body.
No fucking body and I can’t find anything about a funeral, no matter how much I dig.
Oliver’s personnel file has mysteriously vanished from the system, or at least been moved where my credentials can’t access it—and with Durham talking about sending me outside Seattle to keep watch on the executives managing the big SP-73 study in Montana, at this point there’s not much my security credentials can’t access.
Unless someone deliberately wants to hide something from me.
Durham disappeared Oliver.
If he’s gone thanks to me, I don’t know how I’ll live with myself.
And I don’t know how to protect our child, if Durham will go so far when it comes to managing his assets as he sees fit.
Speaking of assets...
He half-smiles, his syrupy platitude smile that’s so insincere I could claw it right off his face.
“Your child will be well cared for, Miss Delaney,” he promises. “You won’t have to worry about raising them alone. You and Oliver are—my condolences, were—two of our finest personnel. A child of yours will have amazing potential as an asset. We’d be more than happy to assist in nurturing that potential, rather than leaving it solely in your hands. Why, you’re practically my own daughter. You’re Galentron’s.”
That knocks the air right out of me.
Total horror.
And I think the only reason Durham’s still alive right now is because I’m in shock over the fact that I’ll never see Oliver’s strong, handsome, life-giving face again.
I just know the grim truth: no matter how it happened, it’s done.
He’s dead.
Galentron doesn’t make mistakes when it comes to the reaper business.
My hands clench into fists as I take a slow, arcing step forward.
“You...”
My voice shakes. I can’t fucking help myself.
There’s a volcanic rage building up inside me, like all the coldness I’ve cultivated over the years is cracking here and now, revealing the molten inferno hidden inside.
It’s beyond ready to erupt in his face.
“You...you stay the hell away from my baby, Durham!” I choke out. “She’s not yours. She’s not your property.”
Durham, cold as ever, just smiles at me, completely unafraid, even though I could snap his neck in seconds with no one the wiser. Too bad I’d pay for it with my baby’s life, and my own.
“Be reasonable, now, Fuchsia,” he says, ever-so-kindly. “Don’t you know I only want what’s best for you? That’s all I’ve ever wanted for my Nightjars.”
Present
“So?” I spit at him.
I’m still holding on to my smile, which claws at my face, purely because I know damned well it unnerves him as much as the click of hard candy against my teeth. “Is this what you meant when you said you wanted what’s best for me?”
I start moving—but he stops me with a warning shot, finger snapping quickly enough on the trigger to make the golden Colt jerk.
Inside the cabin, the shot goes off loud enough to nearly shred my eardrums, especially when it goes whizzing past my jaw.
He’s testing me to see if I’ll flinch.
I don’t.
I don’t even move.
In situations like this, I’m at my best.
An absolute wall of ice.
And this angry old dumbass just made sure his plane can’t even take off.
There’s a smoking hole in its hull, meaning it won’t even pressurize anymore. Not unless he’s had some very crafty military-level upgrades, which I sorely doubt.
“Smooth,” I say flatly. “Next time, aim a little more to the left. My eyes are up here, asshole.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. “I’m merely making sure you keep your distance.”
“Probably smart—considering I’m very interested in hurting you, Durham.”
His expression saddens. It’s so artificial, so controlled, and I want to rip this sociopath’s face to shreds with my bare hands.
“Fuchsia...after everything I’ve given you—”
“After everything you took from me!” I snarl back, and I’m not smiling anymore.
Not by a long shot.
“You took my daughter!” I hiss. “I know she didn’t die in that fucking hospital. I know you lied to me about her being stillborn. And I’ve got her file, courtesy of little fuckboy Timmy Rook. You’re going to unlock it now and show me where you’ve been hiding her.”
A long, sympathetic sigh courses out of him.
Yeah, right.
If he was so sympathetic, he wouldn’t still be pointing that Colt at me.
“Your daughter was stillborn,” he says with absolute assurance. “I’m sorry. It’s clear we didn’t do enough to get you the appropriate postpartum grief counseling, and I regret we failed you so thoroughly in that regard. Had I known the trauma had taken such deep root and been spiraling for all these years...surely I could’ve done something to intervene. But I’m not God. I can’t bring back a child who’s dead, Miss Delaney.”
“Stop saying my name that way!” I roar.
Like he owns it.
It’s my name.
One no one gave me but myself.
Not the dead parents who left me wandering and lost until these vultures picked me up.
Not even Galentron specialists with all their code words and aliases and an endless fuckity-fuck of secret phrases.
I can’t stand hearing it on his patronizing tongue, talking to me like I’m a mental patient. “And stop lying to me. Even if lying is all you’re good fo—”
The door to the cabin bursts open.
We both whirl, tensing.
I’m expecting more Nighthawks.
He’s clearly expecting backup, too, judging by the hopeful glint in his eye.
Only one of us is right, but even if the odds just swung in my favor...
I think I just lost the upper hand.
Truly, I can’t move.
Can’t think.
Can’t do anything but stare at the man in the eyepatch.
His identity doesn’t click. It slams into me headfirst like a screaming train.
Oliver Major.
Holy, holy hell.
I didn’t see him closely enough before, but now, unless I’m already dead...
There’s no mistaking him.
He’s older, more weathered, his skin like fine leather and his jet-black hair now half silver mixed with threads of white.
He’s a bit broader, most of it muscle, a little of it that heavyset barrel build military men get as they grow into themselves with age. It just made him even more of a tank—though there’s a looseness in his left leg, from the calf down.
It doesn’t quite fill out the leg of his jeans, and a slight shift in his height and the odd shape of his shoe tells me he’s got a prosthetic.
He’s lost an eye behind that eyepatch, probably in the attack meant to kill him, but that only makes his lone, wild whiskey-dark eye stand out so much more fiercely, crackling bright with golden brown fire and sharp intelligence.