Page 36 of Fractured Future

I’ll chalk my worn-out state to the hysteria that took over me. In all the years I’ve involuntarily toured this sun-soaked country, I never allowed myself to break down, let alone sit and sob like a scared kid.

Hearing Warner’s reassuring voice on the other end of that phone obliterated the brick wall I’d erected around my fear. It all poured out at the sound of his familiar croon.

Not even that emotional exchange prepared me for the magnitude of seeing him, though. He’s a comforting callback to my childhood and my home. For the first time in years, I tasted safety.

“There’s a motel up ahead,” Axel announces, clicking the laptop shut. “Reckon it’ll work.”

“How far is the nearest town?” Warner glances to the side.

“Far enough. I’m desperate for a hot shower.”

I roll my tense shoulders. “A wash would be good.”

“Agreed.” Hyland gives me a pointed look.

My glare lands squarely on his face, boasting a strong but flat nose, square jaw, and lips so plush, they resemble beckoning, feathery pillows. The son of a bitch is as grumpy as he is ruggedly good-looking.

I know he’s a good guy—Warner insisted as much when they began working together on a few cases. My brother too. Tom has spent enough time getting to know the various investigative teams.

He began offering legal counsel to Sabre Security when he made partner at his London-based law firm. That’s what led meto meet Hyland once, when he dropped paperwork off for Tom while I was visiting.

“Are you saying I smell?”

He fixes his stare outside at the passing cacti. “Yes. And not like roses.”

“I see you’re still a dick.” My tone drips with acid. “Nice to know some things never change.”

Warner briefly looks over his shoulder. “Nicer than anything he’s ever said to us, Em. I’d take it if I were you.”

“I’ll pass on the insult, thanks.”

Tracing a finger over my knuckles, I scratch at a fleck of dried blood. He’s right; I am a mess. I’m sure I can’t see half of the cuts and abrasions I gained in the fight beneath all this blood and dirt.

The tender skin stretched across my puffy knuckles doesn’t hurt. I’ve developed enough scar tissue to deaden the nerves. When I look back up, I realise Hyland’s attention is fixed on my fists.

“Seen some fights?” he asks quietly.

My throat tightens. “Some.”

“I’d say so based on those hands.”

“What do you know about it, huh?”

“They look like mine,” he replies.

Glancing at his oversized paws, similar patterns of calloused tissue warp his knuckles. A twisted part of me feels validated by our matching marks. I’ve earned my battle scars just like him.

“Just a lot smaller,” I joke sadly.

“I guess,” Hyland mutters, keeping his baritone low. “Where have you been all this time?”

“That’s a long story.” My lips pucker and roll together, niggling a scabbed cut. “One I’ll need alcohol to tell.”

“That can be arranged. You hungry?”

Surprise inches over me at his gently-spoken concern. When I met Hyland, he quickly adopted the scowling, silent persona of a social recluse. This gruff but curious person seems different.

“I haven’t eaten since before the…” I trail off before uttering the wordfight.“Yeah, I could eat.”