Fire does not freeze.
The smell of pine oil and gun solvent always followed me home, clinging to my skin like a second uniform. It was nothing like the sweet vanilla scent Gavin kept filling our house with. I had just returned from training Army recruits in brutal winter survival drills when I heard voices from the kitchen.
Gavin was whispering.
“We just need final verification from her commander. Once she’s off-grid in Montana, the paperwork will be easy.”
Another voice answered.
Clint, my stepbrother. The same man who had spent years mocking my military career while living off everyone else.
I stepped into the kitchen. Gavin jumped and shoved his phone into his pocket.
“Morgan, darling,” he said, forcing a smile. “You’re home early. Clint and I were just discussing taxes.”
His words were smooth, but his body betrayed him. Sweat at his temple. Tight shoulders. Eyes searching for an escape.
