Page 18 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter twelve

Dorian

W e'd been at the cabin for two nights amid almost constant rain, pattering against the window glass and tapping on the roof. No engine sounds. No radio chatter. Only Matthew's steady breathing next to me.

I turned within the circle of his arms, gazing at his unconscious face. His mouth hung slightly open, and a cowlick stuck up from the crown of his head. He looked younger. Unguarded.

Vulnerable.

I lightly traced the center of his chest between muscular pecs. He stirred but didn't wake, muscles tensing momentarily before relaxing back into sleep.

When his eyes finally opened, there was no confusion or alarm. Only immediate recognition, as if waking up beside me was already routine.

He greeted me. "Morning." He didn't move away, reach for his phone, or do anything that would signal the distraction of outside concerns. He watched my face with patient attention.

"You sleep like someone who's never been hunted."

"And you sleep like someone who's never been safe." He reached up, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. "How's it feel? Being safe."

I wasn't quite ready to accept all of the implications.

Safe meant permanent. It implied staying and required building something instead of constantly preparing to run.

"Ask me tomorrow." I leaned over and kissed him.

He smiled against my mouth. "Deal. Coffee?"

I nodded, and he rolled out of bed, reaching for his jeans. I watched him dress, marveling at how he occupied his space without constantly checking sightlines.

Trust.

Another dangerous concept I'd need to learn.

Matthew padded barefoot to the tiny kitchen and filled the ancient percolator with water that ran rust-colored for three seconds before clearing. He hummed something under his breath—a melody I couldn't quite remember.

After following him, I leaned against the counter and watched his hands work. Those same fingers measuring coffee grounds had sutured my wounds.

"Look at us," I said, with a crooked smile. "Pretending to play house in the woods while armed mercenaries hunt for my location."

Matthew glanced up, one eyebrow raised. "It's not pretend unless you want it to be."

I studied his profile. He meant it. All of it.

His phone buzzed against the wooden countertop. Wiping his hands on a dish towel, he checked the display.

"Ma." Matthew answered the call. "Hey, what's up?"

I couldn't decipher the words, but her voice was there—rapid-fire questions. Her son's responses were patient.

"No, I'm fine. Just taking some time away." Pause. "I know, I know. I should have called earlier." He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "About dinner today..."

The percolator bubbled vigorously in the background.

"Actually, Ma, I need to tell you something." He looked at me while speaking. "You're always asking if I'm bringing someone to dinner."

My stomach clenched. I shook my head, but Matthew wasn't looking at me anymore.

"Well, this time the answer's yes. His name is Dorian."

Silence reigned briefly on both ends of the call. Then, the rapid-fire interrogation continued.

"Ma, slow down." He laughed. "We'll be there by four. Yes, I know you need time to set another place." He glanced at me. "No, don't make anything special. He's not... we're still figuring things out."

His name is Dorian. Present tense. Not a cover identity or operational alias. Just me, whatever that meant anymore.

"What do we bring?" Matthew listened for a moment. "Right. Dessert. Got it." Another pause. "Ma, I have to go. We'll see you in a few hours. Love you."

He set the phone down and turned back to the coffee, but he was tense in a way he hadn't been.

"You're close with your mother," I observed.

"She doesn't take no for an answer." He poured coffee into mugs for both of us. "Three sons in dangerous jobs and one dead husband. She's earned the right to be persistent about Sunday dinner."

I accepted the mug he offered. "And I just agreed to walk into a family dinner with your brothers? Today?"

"Only if you want to." Matthew leaned against the opposite counter, studying my face over the rim of his mug. "Michael's already suspicious. Marcus will have questions. Miles will try to adopt you before we finish grace." He paused. "But they're good people. They'll see what I see."

"Which is?"

"Someone worth keeping around."

"Your family doesn't know about Hoyle. About any of this."

Matthew's expression turned serious. "No. And I'd like to keep it that way unless absolutely necessary. That might be harder than it sounds. They know something's different. Michael in particular. He's got cop instincts and no patience for deflection."

I imagined sitting around a dinner table in just a few hours with three men trained to read people, spotting inconsistencies and probing weaknesses. Everything about it should have triggered a flight response.

Instead, I said, "I think I want to meet them."

"Yeah? Marcus and Michael will have their guys with them—both college professors."

It was going to be a more crowded table than I expected. "Your mother invited me. Seems rude to refuse. Besides, how dangerous can Sunday dinner be?"

"Ma cooks like she's feeding a battalion. You'll leave ten pounds heavier with enough leftovers to survive the apocalypse." He smiled. "Fair warning—she's going to love you. That might be the most dangerous part."

"More dangerous than your brothers' interrogation?"

"Infinitely. Ma's weapons of choice are guilt and second helpings. Much harder to defend against."

I laughed, but as I stood in the morning quiet, drinking coffee, reality settled over me. In a few hours, I'd sit at a family table, pretending to be someone worthy of their son's and brother's affection.

I knew how to handle armed pursuit. Family dinner was uncharted territory.

While Matthew rinsed our mugs, I approached the living room window. The forest stretched in all directions—Douglas firs and cedars. Nothing moved except raindrops dripping from overloaded branches.

"See anything?" Matthew joined me, close enough that our shoulders brushed.

"Quiet, but the silence can mean they're hiding instead of absent."

Matthew nodded. "How worried should we be?"

"Hoyle's people already know too much." I stepped back from the window. "Your truck's license plate and probably your address by now. Maybe your work schedule and family connections." The words tasted bitter. "They know you matter to me. That makes you a target."

"But they don't know our next move."

I turned toward him. He was calm with no panic on his face.

"You assume we have one." I sat on the couch, sinking into the cushions. "React and respond only gets you so far. Eventually, you need to control the narrative."

Matthew settled beside me. "What kind of control?"

"The kind where we stop being prey." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, fingers steepled as I thought through possibilities. "Hoyle's organization works because it stays invisible. Plausible deniability."

"So, our move is to make it visible."

"Eventually, but not from a defensive position. We need resources. Allies. Information about his current operations."

Matthew was quiet. He blinked as he processed it all. "Michael."

"Your brother?"

"He's got connections. Federal contacts and security clearances. His partner, Alex, has access to databases that might help us understand what we're really dealing with." Matthew rubbed his jaw. "He can probably locate safehouses, weapons, and communication equipment."

I considered the implications. Bringing his family into my battle meant expanding the circle of risk, but it also meant expanding our capabilities. "He'd do that? For you?"

"For me, yes. For someone I care about?" Matthew reached out to weave his fingers together with mine. "Absolutely."

He answered with simple certainty. Family loyalty as an operational asset was a foreign concept.

"I think we should talk to Marcus, too. James is another technical whiz, and Marcus has a network of Seattle contacts." I squeezed his hand. "We're riding with him to Ma's."

"We are?"

"Yes, I'll get it set through text messages.

That gas station off Highway 20. It's on the way to Ma's house and remote enough for privacy but public enough to discourage direct confrontation.

" Matthew's thumb traced across my knuckles.

"It will be impossible to leave him out. Marcus will have questions."

I considered the plans. "Maybe we should pack up everything and let them think we're abandoning the cabin. If we're lucky, they might not be watching when we join Marcus, and they'll find your truck with us both gone."

Moving to the bedroom, I began gathering our scattered belongings. Two sets of clothes, the burner phone Matthew had insisted I carry, and fake identification documents that would pass casual inspection but not deep scrutiny.

Everything fit into a single canvas bag.

I set it by the door and returned to the living room, where Matthew sat at the small table with his phone and a piece of paper, sketching what looked like a rough map. There was something strange and fragile about planning my survival with someone else. I was used to improvisation, not preparation.

"Marcus can meet us at three," he said without looking up. "James will be with him."

The clock on the mantle read 10:35 AM—four hours to kill.

I moved to the window again, scanning the treeline with methodical precision. Nothing had changed since our last check—no movement or vehicles where they shouldn't be.

My ribs protested the sustained standing, and I had to brace against the windowsill. Almost two weeks of healing wasn't enough to make prolonged vigilance comfortable.

"We should vary our patterns." I stepped back from the glass. "Whoever's watching will be logging our routines."

Matthew creased the paper along sharp lines, tucking it into his jacket pocket. "Any suggestions for killing time without looking predictable?"