“Never talk to her that way again.” Trace shoves harder against Cole’s throat, punctuating his point. “She’s suffered enough.”
The thick concentration of testosterone clots the air and locks my joints. Though I’ve seen Trace attack a man once before, I’m immobilized by the calmness in his movements. He strikes, neutralizes, and commands, without showing a single sign of being winded or agitated.
Cole grips the fist around his throat and closes his eyes. His body slumps, and an anguished sound escapes him.
“I’m so sorry, Danni,” he whispers, seeking me with unguarded misery in his gaze.
I share that feeling deeply, because despite the lies and unanswered questions, I love him. But that doesn’t mean I can walk away from Trace.
When I nod my acceptance of Cole’s apology, Trace releases him and steps back.
Cole sags against the wall, tucking his chin and gripping his knees. I’ve never seen him look so defeated and shattered.
The instinct to go to him urges my legs to move, but I fight it. I can’t choose sides until I’ve heard the truth. Not that I’m capable of choosing. My heart wants both. But my damn heart got me into this mess. I need to use my brain to find a way out.
Trace hands me a mug of coffee from the dresser and kisses the top of my head.
“Thank you.” I turn to Cole and gesture at the other two mugs. “He brought you a cup.”
As Trace steps into the closet and pulls on a t-shirt, Cole trudges toward the dresser and stares at the mugs with a slack expression.
“I can’t drink coffee,” he says, lifting it to his lips, “without thinking about the morning we met.”
My smile trembles, and my insides cave in. Will this ever stop hurting? I can’t see how. There’s no resolution that brings both of them happiness, and that’s what I need. I need them to be happy again.
Dressed in a collared shirt and jeans, Trace emerges from the closet and sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his spread knees, head tilted down. I can’t see his face, but I know those glacial eyes are angled toward Cole, scowling as intensely as his mouth beneath the mantle of his brow.
My bedroom isn’t big enough for the three of us, and as the seconds tick by, the space grows smaller, tighter, pressing against my chest. Unbidden, my foot taps, drawing attention to my churning nerves.
We should move into the living room or somewhere with more space. But there isn’t a room in my house large enough to contain this.
I kick off my fuzzy slippers and climb onto the bed. With my back against the headboard, I chew my thumbnail, fidget with the pull strings on my hoodie, sip the coffee, and wait for someone to speak.
The silence endures.
Awkward, pregnant, miserable goddamn silence.
I draw a steeling breath and search Cole’s eyes. “What are you going to do, Cole?”
“I’m going to fight for you.” His jaw flexes, and he sets down the mug.
“Fight for me? All I see is you glaring at your colleague, best friend, or whatever Trace is to you. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in the fucking dark without a clue as to where you’ve been or what you do for a living.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “I can’t tell you, Danni.” A tortured whisper.
My blood heats. “I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do.” He sucks in a harsh breath and slams a fist against his palm. “You know me better than anyone.”
“I don’t even recognize you.”
Where are his tattoos? And he always kept his brown hair clipped high and tight. Now it’s long enough to run my fingers through, at least an inch around his ears and thicker on top. His jawline’s still square, but narrower. His entire face seems drawn, emaciated, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones. He’s a beautiful man, even now, but he looks so different. Unhealthy.
“You look like shit,” Trace mutters. “Does anyone know you’re stateside?”
“Just my handler.” Cole meets his eyes. “I assume the house is clean?”
“Spotless,” Trace says.
What the hell?
“You’re obviously not talking about housekeeping.” I gesture at the dirty laundry all over the floor. “What does spotless mean?”
They continue to glare at each other. But this is more than a silent sparring match. They’re sharing some kind of a wordless conversation I’m not privy to.
I was being watched. Everything I did was monitored, tracked, and recorded.
Is the house clean?
“Does your job put me in danger?” A chill drips down my spine as I think about how careless I’ve been with my safety. “Is that why you’re both always on me about locking my doors? And what do you mean by is the house clean? Is there a chance it was bugged?”