Page 51 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

Elena

T he hour after Brenden’s confession passes in a way I can’t quantify. Time stretches and folds over itself until I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting in that office. The only way I held onto reality was to glance at the clock on my phone every so often just to be sure.

Cillian and Lloyd kept questioning Brenden, even as he bled. His reaction to Peter’s name had been instant, but he didn’t know Peter. He’d just heard the name passed between William and Martin, and it faded out around the same time Martin left Wells.

As for other people who might know about Deming or Sierra Blanca, he was just as useless. He didn’t believe Jeremy knew, but he couldn’t say for certain. Anyone else Cillian asked about was met with equally unsure responses.

It doesn’t matter how little or much Brenden could actually tell us. I already know one person who was involved, and I feel like an idiot for not realizing it sooner.

Peter is nothing if not meticulous. The only thing that ever rivaled it was his ruthlessness.

However, the moment he sent me to Chicago, all of that discipline vanished.

At the time, I thought the client was putting pressure on him to deliver results, but I should have known that Peter doesn’t answer to anyone.

Does he want to use the information or destroy it? And why is it so important ?

I’m pulled from the spiral of questions by the pressure of Silas’s hand resting lightly against my lower back. Wordlessly, he guides me through the short corridor that leads to the executive parking garage. It sits just one level below the ground floor.

Once they realized Brenden didn’t have anything else to give, they ended the conversation, and it was time to head home. Silas didn’t share what they would do with him, but truthfully, I never planned on asking, either.

There are only a few cars parked in the garage at this early hour.

One of Silas’s SUVs sits tucked into a far corner, occupying his personal space.

The blacked-out windows reflect the low overhead lighting as he leads me to the passenger side.

He’s barely said a word since Brenden’s confession, and neither have I.

I always knew we’d have to deal with Peter eventually, but never considered how definitive it would feel. I can only guess what’s taken him so long to come back to Chicago to finish the job himself, but it doesn’t change the fact that he will come back. And soon.

A few months ago, I thought it was over. I really believed I was free from the man who held my leash for over a decade. I was learning to breathe without waiting for his voice in my ear. Now, every breath feels borrowed again.

A shiver rolls through me, starting at the base of my neck and creeping all the way down before curling into my gut.

Silently, Silas opens my car door and offers his hand. I take it and glance up at him, but his eyes are on my feet, focused on making sure I’m safely inside before he closes the door behind me.

I sit back and inhale. The interior smells like leather cleaner and something faintly citrus.

It’s dark, save for the glow of the oversized smart screen embedded on the dash.

Everything in here is sleek and custom. Reinforced glass, bullet-resistant paneling, a full communications override system. It might as well be a tank .

Silas climbs in and starts the ignition, but doesn’t shift into gear. He just sits there, hands gripping the steering wheel. His jaw flexes. Still no words.

I get it. I only stopped shaking ten minutes ago.

The concrete wall in front of us is faintly lit by the SUV’s headlights. Folding my hands over my chest, I try to contain the growing panic.

How the hell are we supposed to prepare for anything when we’re chasing ghosts?

Silas reaches over, his palm warm as it settles gently against the side of my face. I turn and lean into the touch, catching the way his head is tipped back against the headrest, neck taut. I offer a small, sad smile.

His fingers are calloused but featherlight where they rest against my cheek as he studies me, eyes skimming over every flicker of thought I can’t seem to hide from my expression.

I study him back.

The exhaustion sits heavy in his eyes, but everything else is still perfectly composed. His stubble is trimmed, and his curls fall into place as they always do. If I say it enough times, I could almost convince myself that we’re normal.

Silas’s voice cuts through the quiet like a thread snapping. “Do you have a permit to carry?”

I blink. “What?”

His hand falls from my face, but he doesn’t look away. “A concealed carry permit. Do you have one?”

My heart kicks against my ribs, hard.

“No,” I say too quickly. “I don’t.”

It was always a passing thought on the job, usually right after something reminded me just how vulnerable I really was. I was never in one place long enough to make it happen, and even if I had been, Peter would’ve seen it as a threat and the consequences for that…

Silas shifts, fingers curling around the latch for the center console and lifting the lid.

For a second, my brain catalogs the usual contents.

Sanitizer wipes, napkins, several pens, a bottle of hand lotion, but then I see it.

It blends into the black interior, mounted cleanly to the inside wall closest to him with a lock and biometric scanner.

A handgun.

Suddenly, the air in the cab feels thinner.

“Do you always have that with you?” I ask a little breathlessly.

“When I can,” he says. “It doesn’t exactly send the right message if someone sees me concealed carrying. That’s why I have the team.” He shrugs, like that should be the end of it. Then he adds, quieter, “Still, I’d rather be prepared. Especially when I’m alone.”

My gaze drifts from the gun back up to his face. He’s already watching me.

After a moment, he closes the console. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches for my forearm. His fingers wrap around it, thumb brushing back and forth.

“I want you to learn how to shoot,” he admits.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, what we just learned, the violence I witnessed, or my nerves getting the better of me—maybe all four—but a laugh bubbles up so hard that it burns the sides of my throat.

There’s no way I just heard him correctly.

One corner of his mouth lifts, just barely, though the seriousness never leaves his eyes. Then, the hold on my arm tightens. I suck in a sharp breath as he pulls me halfway over the center console. His breath is warm against my face.

The tension in his body coils around both of us. “I’m worried,” he says, voice fraying around the edges. “About what happens next.”

Our noses brush as he ducks his head. “What we just learned…” His jaw tenses. “It changes nothing and everything. We’re still going to find him.”

Silas’s fingers move to my wrist, cradling it, thumb pressing lightly over the veins.

“But I’m more worried about what he’s going to do when he finds out about you .” He swallows hard. “I don’t want you to ever feel helpless.”

I shake my head. “I don’t. Not with you, not when—”

“There are going to be times I’m not there.” Silas cuts me off, voice hardening. “And if something happens to you… If you’re not safe—” He leans in the final inch, forehead touching mine.

My lungs constrict painfully as he pulls back enough to lock eyes with me.

His voice stays steady, low. “I’m going to show you where all the gun safes are hidden in the house,” he says, picking up a strand of my hair and running it between the pads of his fingers. “And add your prints to the scanners.”

I don’t look away.

“I’ll teach you how to handle a gun properly. How to shoot. How to clean it. Everything.” He pauses, just long enough for the weight of it to settle between us. “If you ever decide to get a permit to carry, I’ll help with that, too.” Then, softer, he asks, “Will you do that for me? Please?”

He tenses. I feel it in the hand still resting against my wrist, in the breath he doesn’t take.

The word no sits at the edge of my tongue, but it doesn’t fully surface.

We don’t know what Peter’s going to do. Once he finds out I’m alive and here, he won’t stop. He’ll burn the whole place down if that’s what it costs, including everyone and everything I care about. And like fucking hell am I going to let that happen.

The lump in my throat feels impossible to swallow. “Okay.”