Page 15 of Forged in Fire

Every instinct I have screams that we should be running. That whatever he thinks is important can wait until we’re somewhere safe. But this is Kieran. My twin. The other half of my soul, even if that bond has been strained and distant for too many years.

“How long?” I ask.

“Five minutes. Maybe less.”

Five fucking minutes?

“Kieran—”

“Please, Iris.” There’s something in his voice I can’t quite identify. Urgency, maybe. Or desperation. “I need you to see this. To understand.”

I study his face, looking for some sign of what’s driving this request. He looks healthy, stronger than I expected after being in captivity. There’s no obvious sign of coercion or fear. Justthat steady, familiar determination that means he’s made up his mind about something.

This is nuts, Iris. We have to go.

“Five minutes,” I finally say, despite myself. “Then we leave. No arguments.”

Relief flashes across his features. “Five minutes.”

He leads me back the way I came, toward the exit. I follow, confusion building with each step. Whatever he wants to show me, it’s not inside the building.

“Where are we going?” I whisper hoarsely as he pushes open the door I’d entered through.

“Somewhere we can talk privately,” he says, stepping into the night air. “Without surveillance.”

This is ridiculous. He can talk all he wants when I get him to safety. But I follow dutifully, blind faith moving me.

But something is wrong. I don’t know why, but I can feel it.

The moon has shifted since I entered the building, casting different shadows across the compound. Kieran moves with confidence, like he knows exactly where the cameras are positioned. Like he belongs here.

My unease deepens.

It was too easy…

We walk past the equipment sheds toward what looks like a staging area at the compound’s edge, a place where vehicles probably assemble for deliveries or collections.

As we move, I catch Kieran’s hand sliding into his pocket. He pulls out his phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen in a way that suggests he’s typing a message. The blue glow illuminates his face for just a moment before he slides it back into his jacket.

No. Did I imagine that?

“Kieran, what—?”

“Almost there,” he says, his voice tight.

We walk another couple of minutes, then round the corner of a supply shed, and the staging area opens before us. It’s larger than I expected, with equipment crates stacked in neat rows and a cleared space in the center that could accommodate vehicles or helicopters.

It could also accommodate an ambush.

Kieran stops walking. His head jerks.

Six figures burst out from behind the crates. All armed. All wearing tactical gear and holding assault rifles. All trained on me.

I take another step before my brain catches up with what I’m seeing.

“Kieran?” My voice comes out small. Realization is suddenly dawning. “What’s happening?”

He looks at me with those familiar copper-gold eyes, and I finally recognize what I’ve been seeing in his expression since the moment I found him. What I mistook for joy, for relief, for the brother I remembered.