Avery turned and found Gunner following them, but he was also staring down at his cell phone and holding it a little too tightly. When he realized she was looking, he shoved it in his pocket and shrugged.

She was more than happy to shrug it off too, especially when Jem came up to her, saying, “Sometimes all you need’s a good old-fashioned bar fight,” and Key whooped his approval. She got the distinct feeling they were disappointed that it ended so soon, that if they had their way, they’d start another one just for the hell of it.

Key threw an arm around her shoulders and she grinned at him, knew he was doing it to get a rise out of Gunner.

She’d kissed Key at that bar months ago; she’d been drunk, and he’d been too, and although they’d been good kisses during moments of boldness, exacerbated by being free of her old life and by lots of Dutch courage, she’d ended up going home to Gunner.

Ever since, Gunner had been subtly trying to push her into Key’s arms while acting jealous when she spent any time with Key. An interesting paradox, but one that told her what she needed to know.

Gunner wanted her.

She also knew that Key didn’t. Not really. Because that same night they’d kissed, Key had murmured another woman’s name in her ear. She’d dismissed it at the time because it had mingled in with the other Cajun French he’d been whispering, but now that she’d been around the dialect for a while, she knew for sure.

Emmeline. Whether she was a high school sweetheart or a long-lost love, the woman who broke his heart, she didn’t know and she’d never asked.

When she’d talked to him about this, Key had said, “I’ve known where your heart belongs. Knew it from the night he gave you the tattoo.

“I was mad because I figured he’d break your heart,” Key explained then, and now he glanced back at Gunner and then winked at her.

She swore she heard Gunner’s growl behind her, and that made her smile.

They tumbled into Gunner’s place, through the back door that led to the kitchen. Dare and Jem were cooking eggs and bacon and she sat at the table and ate and laughed. The mood tonight was exactly the note she’d wanted tonight to end on.

A far cry from two weeks earlier, when they’d been somber and moping and exhausted. Shell-shocked, really, because they’d rescued Grace from her stepfather, and they’d rescued her and Dare’s father as well, only to have him die before they could get him help.

The bright spot was that the man responsible for hurting the families of Section 8 and the operatives themselves had been killed on that island. She knew Gunner and Dare were ultimately responsible, but neither man was talking about what had happened in the room where Richard Powell was killed by his own men.

Now they were all worried about Gunner. He’d stopped taking tattoo appointments, stopped drawing. They’d been lucky to get him to go out at all—he’d been growing more and more closed off, although no one could blame him after what he’d been through.

She couldn’t do much because she had promised everyone their space, including him. And he wasn’t exactly asking her for advice. Finally, in a moment of what she deemed pure brilliance, she convinced everyone to go away, take a vacation and, most important, make some decisions about the future of the new Section 8.

A couple of months ago, she’d been all alone. Now she had a half brother, a soon-to-be sister-in-law and three other men in her life, all of whom would combine to become a mercenary group based on the original Section 8. Her father had been one of the original members, and he’d been killed for his efforts. She was a legacy, along with Dare.

Would it be all or nothing? She hadn’t been certain when the others left, but she’d had to make sure Gunner was really, truly okay.

So far, that wasn’t the case.

She’d wanted to take a room in a hotel, give him some space, and although he wasn’t exactly himself, he refused to let her leave. And he still used all the security equipment.

She figured that was simply a hard habit to break. That he was still protecting her, worried about blowback. But Rip—aka Richard Powell—worked alone and his men, who’d actually been the ones to kill him, had scattered to the wind. They were afraid for their own lives.

Tonight was the last night before Dare and Grace left for the Seychelles, before Key left for parts unknown and Jem went to Texas, although nobody knew what he’d lost in Texas, and he wasn’t telling.

After she’d said good night to everybody, bid them safe trips, knowing it would be the last time she saw them for a while, she sat on her own bed and debated.

Tomorrow, the place would be emptied of everyone but her and Gunner.

Now she padded down the stairs to Gunner’s room. His was the only one on the second floor—Key and Jem slept in the panic room on the shop level with all the cameras, because they felt most comfortable there. Gunner’s floor held the same sort of security setup.

Dare and Grace were already pretending to be on their honeymoon on the third floor, down the hall from Avery’s room, and everyone granted them their space.

She’d been sleeping with headphones on.

Now, shivering more from anticipation than the cold, she stood in front of Gunner’s door, wearing just a T-shirt that skimmed her thighs, the neckline stretched comfortably enough to fall off one shoulder. It was actually his T-shirt she’d grabbed one day and never given back.

She knocked lightly and he opened the door quickly, like he was expecting her.

Duh, because the cameras probably picked you up the second you left your room.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. He held his gun in his hand and she touched his wrist and pushed it so the gun faced the floor.

“Nothing.”

“Oh.” He stared at her. “You’re sure?”

“Never more sure,” she murmured. She took a step closer, stared up his body. Put her free hand out to trace the swirl of tattoos along his neck and he let her. Stood stock-still, frozen, watching her face.

Her hands traveled along his arms, starting from his shoulders and moving downward and then back up, the muscles bunching and flexing under her touch.

Still nothing from him but the stare. She really hoped he didn’t want to talk about this—about anything—because she did not come here for conversation tonight.

Finally, she stood on tiptoes, slid a hand around the back of his neck and brought her lips to his. She closed her eyes and melted against him, the heat of his body calling to her like a beacon.

It took her maybe ten seconds to realize he wasn’t kissing her back.

* * *

Gunner had tried to back away, but he’d found himself mesmerized by her touches, by the smooth expanse of tan skin that showed around the old white V-neck T-shirt of his she wore. When she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him, the instinct to pick her up and carry her to his bed and fuck everything else nearly won out.

God, she was sweet. He wanted to sink into her and not pull out for days. Weeks. Forfuckingever.

But none of that was in the cards.

Your whole life is a lie.

He ripped his mouth away. She looked stunned. Stepped back, touched her swollen lips with her fingers. Stared at him like she didn’t recognize him.

Had she sensed something? Did she know?

He hoped not. There was so much more to his past than Avery or the others knew. Finding out he was Richard Powell’s son had only scratched the surface of a very tarnished past, one he’d wanted to stay buried.

“Sorry,” she whispered, backed away and he didn’t go after her, not even when she turned and ran. He stood like stone, steeling himself for what was coming next.

When he heard her race up the stairs and lock her door, he knew what he had to do. The rest of the crew would leave in a few hours. He lay on his bed for most of that time, listening. Waiting. When he heard the last of them leave, watched the cabs pull away for the airport, he knew he was nearly ready.

It was only then that he used the blade to lightly go over the tattoo already embedded in his skin. Recut and press the herbs into the welling blood to keep the charm active. Most would tell him he only had to rub the herbs, not do the cuts. But Josephine—his Josie—had made him promise to do it like this. Said it was more effective.

He’d keep that promise to her until the day he died. Could hear her chiding in his ear, “That’s it, chère . . . perfect.”

Perfect.

She would hate that he’d mourned her for so long that he’d left a string of broken hearts in his wake, trying to forget.

She’d be angry, but she’d understand, and that was the bitch of it all.

He muttered her name like a prayer. Remembered the most important words he’d ever learned.

“From this moment on, all your lies are your life.”

He’d been lying for as long as he could remember.

The first thing he remembered was being woken in the middle of the night. He’s twelve. He should be asking what’s wrong, should be scared, but it had happened so many times before, he’s just moving. Sleeping on his feet. By the time he wakes, he’s in a moving car with the bag he’d carefully packed hidden, shoes shoved on, and they’ll be in a car heading toward a train or a plane that’s also going somewhere.

Doesn’t matter, because he won’t have a choice. That somewhere won’t matter. At least it never had before.

But this time, as the helo hovers over the landing strip on the small island, his stomach’s tight, muscles tense.