Chapter 2

When I got home, I finally replied to the email that had been inviting me—once a year, for seven years.

“I accept the position as an FBI consultant.

I’ll report to the Los Angeles headquarters in three days.”

I packed my suitcase, booked the flight, took a shower, and tried to sleep.

I’d barely started drifting off when voices drifted in from the courtyard.

“…Don, I can’t thank you enough. I hate troubling you this late.”

Fianna.

“Don’t mention it,” Adrian Holt said, his voice low, steady, commanding. “This is your sister’s house. Frost has been stationed overseas for years; she barely returns. An empty house is still an empty house. Since your apartment is compromised, stay here. As long as you need.”

A cold shock ripped up my spine.

I sat up, threw the covers off, and ran—barefoot—straight to the door. I yanked it open.

The two figures in the courtyard turned toward me at the same time.

Adrian stood tall in a dark wool coat, broad-shouldered, the silver moonlight outlining him like a blade.

Fianna huddled beside him in a worn coat and a scarf, eyes red as if she'd been crying for hours—every inch the fragile damsel tucked under a powerful man’s wing.

For a split second, Adrian looked glad to see me.

Then he seemed to realize what my presence meant.

And his face went still.

No joy.

No “you’re home.”

Only cold scrutiny.

And displeasure.

“Frost?” His brows drew tight. “What are you doing here? Your reassignment request was denied. Who authorized you to return without permission?”

The words hit harder than any bullet.

I had traveled halfway across the world for him.

And the first thing he did was question why I dared show up.

Was I always meant to stay tucked away in that godforsaken border territory?

I swallowed. “My request was denied. But I was seriously injured. The family granted me seven days of medical leave.”

“Injured?” Adrian’s face shifted. He stepped forward fast. “Where? How bad?”

I lifted my sleeve.

Under the moonlight, my arm—once pale and soft—was a map of survival:

deep scars from frostbite, cuts from broken equipment, bruises from hauling crates, burns from improvised repairs…

Ugly. Raw. Brutal.

Adrian’s pupils constricted sharply.

“What happened to you? Frost—what the hell—how did it get this bad?”

I let him hold my arm.

For once, I didn’t pull away.

“The heaters at the outpost failed during a snowstorm.

We held the line at minus thirty, weapons icing over, fingers going numb around the triggers.”

I kept my voice flat.

“Metal railings and gun barrels froze solid. If you touched them without insulated gloves, your skin tore when you pulled away.”

“The border routes were constantly hit. Ambushes at night, sniper fire at dawn. Shrapnel didn’t always kill—but it lodged under the skin, and you learned to keep moving anyway.”

“When we ran supply and ammunition, the weight of the gear cut into our shoulders and ribs. The straps soaked through with blood, stiffened when they dried. Taking them off reopened the wounds every single time.”

I wasn’t emotional.

I wasn’t accusing him.

I was just telling the truth.

Every word landed on him like a blow.

He trembled. His jaw clenched. His eyes flickered with shock, pain, guilt—

Until Fianna finally decided to speak.

“Oh, come on, Holt,” she said softly, with that trembling-little-bird voice she’d perfected. “It’s not that bad. I was stationed in that region for half a year. It was rough, sure, but not like she’s describing.”

Her eyes slid to me, gentle on the surface, sharp underneath.

“Sis… maybe you’re exaggerating a little because you want Holt to feel sorry for you? To get him to bring you back sooner?”