by Pam Godwin
“Thank you for coming.” He stepped forward.
There was no awkward shuffling of shaking hands or halfhearted side-hugs. They went straight in for the hard, constricting embrace of old friends, with arms wrapping around each other and fists pounding on backs.
Trace had maintained his lean muscle, evident in the flexing strength of his squeeze. Eight years hadn’t physically aged him. If anything, the years made him even more disgustingly handsome and distinguished.
When they separated, Cole turned to the quiet, stunning redhead at his side. “This is Lydia.”
Her eyes shone with alertness and curiosity as she shook Trace’s hand. “Don’t be alarmed, but I know everything about you.”
“Everything?” Trace arched a stern brow at Cole.
“All of it.” He nodded. “She knows our history, our careers, and every detail of our tangled relationship with Danni. Full disclosure.”
Trace looked back at Lydia, his expression softening with something akin to wonderment. “She’s the real deal then.”
“It doesn’t get more real than this.” Cole clasped her hand.
She didn’t smile, didn’t speak. But her fingers squeezed his, clenching and releasing in silent agreement.
He introduced Trace to the team. They knew everything there was to know about one another. They’d just never met in person.
“I’ll show you guys around.” Tate led the others toward the hallway.
Kate, Matias, and Camila had never been here. Everyone else was well acquainted with the property.
With nine bedrooms and ten bathrooms, it had been designed to serve as his safe house and accommodate large teams of operatives. Plenty of space for this group to spread out and make themselves at home.
“These walls hold a lot of memories.” Trace stared after the team, watching them disperse. “Not all of those memories are good.”
Eight years ago, he and Trace had brought Danni here and forced her into a decision. They’d shared her in this house. Fought over her. Cried over her. This was where she’d said goodbye to Trace after telling him she’d chosen Cole.
Cole could never live in this house. It wasn’t his home. It only served as a safe place to regroup and make plans. That was why he’d offered it to the Freedom Fighters. This property was as much theirs as it was his.
“Why am I here?” Trace clasped his hands behind his back and tipped his head down, his sharp eyes flicking between Cole and Lydia. “I want the whole story.”
“You’ll get it, but we should wait for Danni.”
“I’m here.” Her voice drifted from the hallway, followed by the light tread of her footsteps.
His hand went to Lydia’s thick red mane, stroking the silky length. He did it without thought, a subconscious gesture of possessiveness, as if he needed to prove that he wasn’t available. Which was ridiculous. He didn’t need to prove anything to anyone, least of all, Danni.
She emerged from the corridor, her blonde hair falling around her shoulders. The flowy skirt of her Bohemian-style dress rippled around her ankles as she approached, her gray eyes instantly locking on his.
Beautiful, as expected, she glowed with sunshine. Her cheeks rose with a smile, her face bright and shimmering with happiness.
She went straight to him and hugged his waist, and that was when he noticed the change.
“Whoa.” He gripped her shoulders and held her away, his attention dropping to the small round bump beneath the dress. “You’re pregnant?”
“And miserable.” Her smile widened. “Terrible nausea.”
If misery gave out a steady light, flushed the skin with warmth and radiance, and stretched the mouth into a permanent smile, then yeah, she was absolutely miserable.
He’d never seen her this happy. It flowed through her expression and bearing and emitted outward in infectious sparkling waves.
That was all he ever wanted for her, and he felt deep pleasure knowing he’d made the right decision eight years ago in this very house when he let her go.
“I imagine there’s more to your misery than the nausea.” His gaze flicked to Trace. “You’re going to be a father.” He tsked, shaking his head. “That should be illegal. The poor kid.”
Trace’s lips twitched, struggling to maintain his scowl.
“Danni, this is my girl.” He turned, staring into vast green eyes, where the reflection of trust and acceptance floated atop a fathomless sea of strength. “Lydia, this is Danni, your dance instructor.”
“Hi.” Lydia pushed the syllable past a tight throat.
She wasn’t nervous or apprehensive or even jealous. Cole gave her no reason to be any of those things. When he looked at Danni, there was no longing in his deep brown eyes. No passion or possessiveness. He gazed upon the pretty blonde with kindness and warmth. Like brotherly love.
Like the way Mike had looked at Lydia.
The painful tightness in her throat ebbed and swelled with the vacillation of her emotions. Mike was gone, and while she coped with that insufferable reality, she wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries with Cole’s ex-girlfriend.
The obligatory exchanges—Nice to meet you and How was your trip?—where they traded hollow stares, waited for a turn to talk, and skated around the fact that they’d both had sex with Cole—all of it required more energy than she could muster.
But she was here for this. One-hundred-percent. Trace and Danni were sacrificing a week of their time to help her. The least she could do was slap on a friendly face and participate.
“Let’s skip the awkwardness.” Danni crooked a finger at her and walked through the brightly lit living room toward the open kitchen. “You look like you could use a beer.”
“A beer would be great.”
The four of them gathered around the kitchen island. Open shelving on rustic wood walls displayed dishes and cookware. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the back of the lakehouse offered a panoramic view of the raw wilderness. The natural rock and wrought-iron terrace off the kitchen connected to a bridge that led to the private dock below.
Inside, the motif was clean, spacious, and monochromatic, as if designed to pull visitors toward the exterior views of the lake and woodland.
It felt safe here. Isolated. Quiet.
“It’s weird.” She lowered onto a stool at the island, speaking to no one in particular. “For the first time in years, I don’t feel like I have to look over my shoulder.”
“Do I get to hear what you two are involved in?” Danni set opened bottles of Bud Light in front of Lydia and Cole and poured a scotch for Trace. “Or is this another classified spy mission?”
Cole met Lydia’s eyes, his expression grave, silently warning her that he was about to rip off the Band-aid and talk about Mike.
She nodded and steeled herself.
He pulled up a seat beside her, sitting comfortably close with his legs spread around her stool. Then he shared her story with Trace and Danni.
Her father’s death, Mike’s death, Vincent Barrington’s corruption, the years of dogged determination she and Mike had invested, essential details of her personal life, the operation in Texas, her ugly truths—it was all exposed and so hard to hear.
But as she listened to the narration of her whole existence from Cole’s point of view, she didn’t cry. She didn’t even feel vulnerable. She was riveted. The way he viewed her life was astonishing.
He saw her hopes and struggles as something beautiful and painful and strong and poignant and incredibly human. He didn’t perceive her as a thief or a rapist or a horrible villain. She couldn’t mistake the raw compassion in his voice. He ached for her. He felt her. He related to her on every level.
That was when she realized that the things she carried around weren’t so different from what he carried around.
It was profoundly overwhelming and powerful.
As the night wore on, the others popped in and out of the kitchen, grabbing food and hanging out for a while. Tiago and Kate walked down to the
dock. The rest of them eventually went to bed.
After midnight, they moved the conversation to the living room, where Cole lit fires in the hearths that sat on either end of the wall of windows.
Trace lounged on the brown leather couch, looking for all the world like a Viking king in a stuffy suit. Tall and muscled, intimidating scowl, blonde hair, strong features, and a stern brow that, even in its resting state, gave him a brooding mien.
With Danni curled up against his side, he’d shed the jacket, the collar of his starched shirt gaping open. They couldn’t have looked more relaxed.
Cole sprawled in the armchair across them as they discussed Trace’s casino business and Danni’s leave of absence from belly dancing. She was four months pregnant, her baby bump barely noticeable beneath the dress. But she touched it often, wearing a whimsical smile.
Lydia watched Cole through the night, expecting him to steal looks in Danni’s direction. But every time she looked at him, he was looking back, watching her as if she were the only person in the room.
Obsessive stalker.
Beautiful, complicated man.
His presence in her life felt surreal. The whole evening was pleasantly bizarre. For whatever reason, the four of them fell in lockstep with one another as if they’d been hanging out every weekend for decades, as if eight years hadn’t separated Cole from his friends. Instead of stiff pleasantries, they spoke openly and honestly, hiding nothing.
“When Cole told me he was going to ask for your help…” She stood beside Cole’s chair, running her fingers through his hair. “I was fully prepared to make jokes about the tension between the three of you. But there’s no tension. No awkwardness. You’re all just…old friends.”
“We went through some tough months together,” Danni said. “But it worked out.”
“It worked out for me. From where I’m standing, you made a mistake choosing the uptight, scowly suit over the sexy, rebellious stalker. But hey, your loss is my win.”
Trace scowled. Hard. Scary.
Danni burst into laughter.
Cole caught Lydia’s waist and pulled her down on his lap. “Are you trying to cause trouble?”
“Just testing the waters.”
“You’re doing great,” he murmured against her ear. Then he looked at Danni. “Your wedding gown is hanging in the armory. Take it with you when you leave. Donate it. Make diapers out of it. You won’t hurt my feelings. It’s yours.”
Danni didn’t seem surprised that Cole still had the gown. Lydia wasn’t, either. For a battle-hardened vigilante, Cole was remarkably sentimental.
“There’s a girl who volunteers at the homeless shelter with me.” Danni smiled. “She just got engaged and doesn’t have much money. I’ll give it to her.”
“Your engagement ring is in the River Thames.”
Danni nodded, her expression thoughtful. “You’ve been alone for a long time, Cole.” She shifted her gaze, locking onto Lydia. “I was afraid I wouldn’t like you. He needs a strong woman, and I didn’t think anyone would ever measure up. I’m not sure that I measured up. But here you are, exceeding my expectations. I know you’re hurting. I feel it. I can’t even fathom the sheer force you’re exerting to keep the tears at bay.” She stood, slowly approaching, and leaned down to touch Lydia’s chin. “It’s an honor to be here, to meet a woman who matches Cole in strength and backbone. It’s an absolute privilege to help you avenge the deaths of your brother and father. You already have the beauty to catch the eye of this hacker guy, and by the end of this week, you’ll have the moves. Your dancing will be so hot you’ll have every man in the club coming for you.” She winked at Cole and stepped back. “I hope you’re prepared for that.”
Cole made a growling sound in his throat.
All Lydia could do was mutter a raspy, “Thank you.”
Danni exceeded her expectations, too. It was no wonder why it had taken Cole so long to let her go.
“I’m glad you asked us to come.” Trace pushed off the couch and grasped Danni’s hand. “We missed you, Cole.”
“Same.” Cole caressed his fingers along Lydia’s shoulder as he asked Trace, “Are you headed to bed?”
“Yeah. The girls have a long week ahead of them.” Trace rubbed his jaw. “I want to spar with you. It’s been a while.”
“Sure, I’m happy to kick your ass. Just like old times.”
“The way I remember it, you can’t even kick your own ass.”
“I’ll remind you how it is when you’re screaming like a little bitch, and I have to ball gag you.”
“The conversation has suddenly taken an uncomfortable turn,” Lydia mumbled.
“See you in the morning.” Trace chuckled.
It was the first smile she’d seen on his face. Didn’t make him look any less rigid.
Shortly after Danni and Trace went to bed, Cole grabbed their bags and led her down the long corridor of bedrooms.
“I’ll show you around the property tomorrow.” He stopped at a doorway midway down the hall. “This is where you’ll be spending most of the week.”
He flipped on a light, illuminating the dance room. He’d told her about it in Dublin, saying he’d designed it for Danni but now had no practical use for it.
“We need a sparring room.” He shut off the lights and tugged her onward. “After we destroy Vincent Barrington, I’m going to repurpose it.”
“Makes sense.”
He guided her into the last room and shut the door. Full-length windows covered two perpendicular walls. A massive king-sized bed took up one corner, and an ornately carved wood-burning hearth sat in the other. From the rich wood flooring to the opulent crown molding, he’d invested a lot of money in this place.
As they showered and got ready for bed, she realized how much she didn’t feel like herself, her limbs heavy with fatigue and sadness. But every shared look and interaction with Cole felt easy and comfortable. Seamlessly in sync. They’d earned that. After the trials of the past year, they deserved harmony with each other.
“I have something to give you.” He removed a small box from his bag and guided her into bed, following her in.
“What is it?”
“I’ve debated when to give this to you, thinking I should wait until after the mission. But here’s the thing. You’re so fucking strong you don’t need kid-glove treatment. You’re not fragile or broken. If you can’t handle something, I’ll know and tread with care. So I’m going to give this to you. Then I’m going to fuck you.” His voice grew husky. “Because that’s what you need. It’s what we both need.”
Her breaths shredded, and her nipples went taut beneath her thin t-shirt.
He noticed, his dark gaze zeroing in as he lifted his hand. Through the cotton, the blunt nail of his thumb dragged over the tight peak.
Heat fluttered her veins. “Let’s just skip to the last part.”
“No.” He took his touch away, grabbed whatever he’d set behind him, and placed it on her lap.
“What is this?” She lifted the small wrapped present.
“Mike was holding it when he died.”
The room grew cold, and her heart thudded in her throat. “I don’t want to open it.”
“Then don’t.”
“I have to. I have to confront this head-on, or it will take over my life. If the grief wins, Vincent wins.”
“You need to grieve, Lydia. It frees up the painful energy.”
“I am grieving.” She yanked at the red bow on the gift, her vision blurring. “I just don’t have to drown in it. I’m channeling it into my revenge. That’s how I’ll free the pain.”
She wouldn’t fail. She couldn’t.
“Mike was such a sentimental gift-giver.” She ripped off the glittery paper on the small box. “This is going to break my heart.”
“It’s not going to break you.”
With an aching chest, she opened the package and removed a lightweight ball of newspaper. Her hands trembled as she carefully tore away th
e wrapping and revealed the gift inside.
A hand-painted egg.
“Oh, Mike.” Heaviness invaded her limbs as she soaked in the gorgeous, familiar brush strokes. “He made this.”
“He painted it?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes burned. “He was so artistic. He designed a lot of my tattoos, including the swallow on my chest.”
She rolled the hollow, fragile egg in her palm, examining the detailed illustration of the same red swallow sitting on the limb of a cranberry tree.
Searing pain rose through her throat. Her gasping prompted him to inch closer and wrap his warm strength around her.
“The bird…” Her voice broke. “The bird represents my mother, and the cranberries… That’s Shannon. Or maybe it’s him and me, too. The three of us used to dance around the house, singing songs by The Cranberries. Our favorite was ‘Ode To My Family.’ Shannon loved the band, and though Mike would never admit it, he loved it, too. He always sang the loudest.”
A tear trickled down her cheek, and more followed.
Cole positioned her with her back against his chest, holding her and wiping the wetness from her face.
“I really hope he didn’t spend his last night on Earth emptying this damn egg and painting it.” Her heart hurt unbearably. “He was supposed to get laid.” She choked on a sob. “He wasn’t supposed to die.”
She let herself cry for a moment before swallowing it down and repackaging the gift. “He knew how much I wanted PaulVer to give me an Easter egg. After a year of trying and failing, I was so frustrated with myself.”
“So he gave you an egg himself.”
“Yeah.” She set the package on the nightstand and twisted around, straddling his lap. “I’m okay. The pain feels really heavy, and everything around me has slowed way down, like I’m trying to move through thick mud. But you keep me centered, focused. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m here for you.”
“I keep picturing his body lying there in the snow. He’s just lying there alone, cold, abandoned. I don’t have any religious or life-after-death beliefs, but I can’t bear the thought of him shoved into a refrigerator drawer, anonymous, forgotten.
