In the warm sunlight, the truth is starker. Everything is brighter, harsher. The glimmer on the water, the coarse sand beneath my bare feet. The shrieking of children nearby and the crash of waves. Even though my ass is still tender, I’m glad to be sitting. The story is pummeling me as it comes up and out. I’m weak. Lightheaded.

The man beside me stares at the water. I can’t see his eyes, hidden beneath a tattered baseball hat and sunglasses. But he’s listening. I notice small signals—twitching of fingers, compressing of lips.

After a fitful few hours of sleep, I woke this morning to coffee and an offer to help me dress. I barely had time to process the fact he’d kept my remaining “aftercare” clothing before Dominic grabbed his car keys. Wearing drawstring pants, a T-shirt sans bra, an oversized cardigan, and flip-flops, I followed him numbly downstairs and into the crisp morning. I figured this was it—he was taking me home, he didn’t want to hear the truth, didn’t want to deal with my crazy. I couldn’t blame him.

But instead, he drove us to the beach in Venice. A cloudy morning, the white sands were vacant except for several clusters of homeless and black dots of surfers in the water. Over the last hour, as I’ve haltingly started my tale, the clouds have burned off. The sun now beats warmly down. Vagrants have been replaced by families toting umbrellas and coolers, and pairs of young women in skimpy bikinis.

Covering my eyes from the glare off the water, I watch a toddler dodging small waves on the shoreline. Nearby, his mother takes pictures.

With a deep breath, I continue my story. “I was unbelievably stupid to think Reznikov wouldn’t care. That he’d even enjoy the bad press. Get a laugh out of it. I was living in a fantasy land. Those women…” I falter, clearing my throat. “Those women trusted me. They gave me their truths, and I got them killed.”

Dominic stirs, head turning toward me. “How?”

“Reznikov found them,” I whisper brokenly. “It was the night before the story broke. Someone must have leaked the article, I don’t know… Three hookers winding up dead is rarely newsworthy, except I was still getting alerts. Same MO as the first victim. I went to the morgue to see for myself. It was them. They were executed for speaking to me about the trafficking ring.”

Instead of offering empty platitudes, Dominic nods. “Sounds likely. What did you do?”

Another layer inside me crumbles, revealing deeper, darker shame. “I went home and told Paul everything. He didn’t even know about the article. I’d kept it secret because…” My vision blurs with tears.

Memories of that night are jagged, malformed with emotion. Fear, anger, betrayal. I’d never seen Paul so infuriated, so violent. He’d thrown a chair across the room. So much yelling and name-calling. Panic and darkness. I’d begged for him to help me make it right. He’d threatened to have me arrested.

“Because…?” prompts Dominic.

I swallow hard. “My first lead on the story came from a phone call between him and his superior. He didn’t know I was listening. I heard a few Russian names and started there.”

He’s silent for long moments, then, “You used intel from a private conversation between Homeland Security agents to launch your own investigation?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He whistles softly. “I would have been pissed, too. So Homeland Security was going after the trafficking ring, and you, what, thought you could singlehandedly bring them down first?”

“No. I don’t know. I tried to resist the pull of the story. I swear I did. First it was a few calls, then a few more. A name here, a name there. I didn’t know that anything would come of it, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I knew it was wrong, that I should tell Paul, but I… I couldn’t. I was a stupid, naïve, selfish woman whose pursuit of fame killed four people.”

And my beloved dog.

Dominic’s silence lasts so long I’m certain his next words will be a goodbye. I tell myself I’m ready for it. That I’ll be okay, even though there’s nothing further from the truth.

“I made a call that killed six men.” His voice is soft, hoarse. “We had orders to retrieve an informant who’d been compromised. The intel was good—we knew where he was being held in the compound, how many insurgents were there. It should have been cut and dry. But I heard kids. Crying.”

Dominic grips the bill of his baseball hat, bending it, his knuckles white. “I sent three men to find our guy, and the rest of us started sweeping the place for those kids. We didn’t have much time. The drone was in the fucking air, and that compound was going down whether or not we were still in it.”

My heart pounds, chills racing down my arms. “Did you find them?”

“No. It was a trap—a recording attached to a remote bomb. In the seconds before it went off, we learned the informant was already dead. Two of my men were caught in the blast. Through the coms we could hear the other team take fire. It was a massacre. Total chaos.”

His breathing is heavy, shoulders tense. Without thinking, I clutch his fist, half-buried in the sand. He jerks, then slowly relaxes.

“If we’d stayed together, we could have made it.”

His voice has the familiar, bitter flavor of guilt. I don’t say anything. Not because there aren’t a thousand words, but because he wouldn’t appreciate them. Just like he knew I wouldn’t.

“You made it,” I say softly. “And that’s what hurts the most, doesn’t it?”

He glances at me, offering a short nod. “I was carrying a wounded teammate, fighting assholes in every corridor and trying to get out of that sandstone maze. I got stabbed in the groin. It was just a kid. No older than eleven or twelve. He came after me again and I knocked him out, then fell on my ass. Only then did I realize the man I was carrying was dead. I tied off my leg as best as I could and crawled the rest of the way out. Dragged myself up a hill and tried to get the drop called off, told command there were men inside. But it was too late. I watched the bombs drop from the sky. Heard the last communication line with my men die. Heard their final shouts.”

A sudden gust brings a hint of sea spray to us. I draw the fresh air into my lungs, feel the expansion, the beat of my heart. Proof of life. Never has it felt more real or heavy.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I tell him.

He pulls off his sunglasses, revealing tired eyes. “When I was told the higher-ups wanted to give me an award for valor, I left the Navy. I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t stop thinking about that kid stabbing me, how he truly believed I was the enemy. After taking some time off, I decided to start Titan. Where other private defense companies were commodifying war, I wanted to see if I could use my skillset for peacekeeping efforts.”

“A private NATO,” I muse.

“Yeah, without the politics.” He snorts grimly. “I’m sure you’ve heard how that turned out, my big dream. I guess we were both naïve.”

I laugh, the sound startling us both. “You’re a hero. I’m basically a criminal. I appreciate the effort, but there’s no comparison.”

“I’m no hero,” he says gravely, “and you’re not that person anymore, London.”

My laughter is hollow. “Then who the hell am I?”

“Among other things, a survivor.”

I avoid his gaze. “I haven’t told you everything.”

“I know.” He stands, dusting sand from his pants and offering me a hand. “You’re taking the night off work, by the way.”

My head shakes. “I can’t afford—”

His eyes narrow. “Are you saying no?”

That voice. It fills me up, bubbling through me like fine champagne. I didn’t realize how much I missed it, longed for it, until this moment.

“No, sir,” I whisper.

Strong fingers thread through mine. He lifts my palm to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin. “Good girl.”

Before I can stop myself, I ask, “Why aren’t you running away?”

His brows lift, a smile teasing his mouth. “When I’m afraid of something, I don’t run away from it. I run toward it. And, kitten, the only thing on this planet that scares me is you.”