Page 15 of What Remains

When she’s gone, I fold forward and take a minute to decompress. Then I drag in a deep breath, find my shirt—and what’s left of my pride—and step outside.

The jungle is thick with wet heat and the ceaseless drone of insects. My cabin sits more than a kilometer away, dark and empty when I get there. I grab some grub to quiet my stomach, then take a hot shower.

The first hit of water stings like fire. I brace a hand against the wall, watching thin ribbons of pink snake down the drain. Dropping my forehead to the tile and closing my eyes, I try to scrub the last two days in that cabin out of my head.

I consider letting my mind drift to Gwen again, but thinking about her while I’m naked is a terrible idea. I know exactly what’ll happen. I’ll get hard—pain or no pain—because apparently, I’m screwed up in more ways than one. And then the guilt will hit. I’m not allowed to want Gwen like that for far too many reasons.

After a few more minutes alone with my thoughts, which is a dangerous place to be, I get out and get dressed, minus a shirt. Then I head into the living room and find my “wife” is back from wherever she’s been the last three days.

“Bloody hell.” Her bag thuds to the floor. “What happened while I was gone?”

I show her my bare back. “She had me in the cabin again.”

“Ah shit, I’m sorry. I’m just getting back from a trip Jezebel sent me on, or I would have⁠—”

“What? Stopped her?” I grunt. “Anyway, better me than you.” Thankfully, Jezebel hasn’t laid a hand on Zoey. I’ll be breaking cover if she tries. “You’re on nurse duty.”

“I’m starting to believe Jezebel has a thing for you.”

“Hell of a way to flirt.” I gesture to the medical kit on the coffee table, so she’ll get a move on and help a guy out, but she doesn’t budge. And shit, I know that look.

“Maybe if Jezebel thought we broke up⁠—”

“If she wanted me, do you really think she’d give a damn whether I’m taken? Besides, I’d do a lot for my country, but having sex with that woman for intel isn’t one of them.”

She tosses a dismissive hand in the air. “Relax, I was kidding.”

“Sure you were.”

“Mostly.” At least she’s honest. “Out of curiosity . . .” she starts while finally cleaning my wounds with antiseptic, “why’d you say yes to helping me out in the first place?”

“You’re just now asking me that?”

“It’s not like we’ve ever had any late-night pillow talk and shared our deepest thoughts.”

She has a point. I also think Jezebel suspects Zoey and I aren’t sleeping together, which could become a problem for our cover story.

“Never mind, you don’t have to open up. I’m the most closed book you’ll ever meet.”

And thank God for that. I have no desire to talk about our personal lives. We’ve been doing a bang-up job of acting as if we landed on this island without the shadows of our past.

We remain quiet for the rest of the time, and once she’s done patching me up, I ease into my shirt and collapse onto the couch.

Zoey wordlessly pours two fingers of whiskey—Archie Rose, from Australia—and hands me a glass. We made a liquor store run when we were in Brisbane last week, dropping off a package together. On occasion, Jezebel has Zoey join me on flights.

I down the drink without tasting it, pour another, and watch the liquid swirl.

“You won’t find answers in a bottle.” She sits beside me. “Believe me, I know.”

“Not answers.” I study the glass. “Just anesthesia.” Though I down the next glass like it’s penance. “Got a trip tomorrow. Priority package.”

Her eyes narrow. “What’s the cargo?”

“No clue.” I rub my jaw. “But what if this time it’s a person?”

“Then we’ll save them.”

Easier said than done. The compound always has twenty armed guards, and we’re not allowed to carry. “All I know is it’s been a month, and we’re no closer to answers now than we were on day one.” I glance at her. “Jezebel did hint her boss might be a woman.”