Page 52 of Borrowed Pain
"Tell me about Dorian," Rowan said as he wound the car through residential streets.
"Former Army intelligence. Afghanistan left him with scars—PTSD, hypervigilance, the works—but he's been rebuilding. These days he runs a consulting firm that protects people who've been stalked or threatened. He's relentless about keeping others safe."
Rowan checked the rearview mirror. "And Matthew?"
"They met at a crash scene. Dorian was wrecked—bleeding, barely holding it together—and Matthew was the paramedic who pulled him out alive."
Rowan's eyes stayed on the road. "And Dorian will trust me?"
"He'll trust Matthew's read. And Matthew trusts mine—usually."
"There," I pointed toward a converted brick warehouse. "Home sweet temporary home."
Rowan parked across the street, studying the building's defensive positions. "Good sight lines, multiple access points, and industrial neighbors likely to mind their own business."
"Now you sound like Dorian." I grabbed my suitcase from the backseat while Rowan retrieved a bag from the trunk. "Ready to meet the family?"
"Are they ready to meet a former federal agent with trust issues and a tendency toward obsessive investigation?"
"Matthew once dated a guy who collected vintage mannequins and spoke only in movie quotes. Dorian's friends include someone making artisanal hot sauce for a living and another breeding rescue pit bulls. Trust me, you'll fit right in."
The front door opened, and Matthew stood silhouetted in the doorway, medical bag slung over his shoulder, prepared for anything from a twisted ankle to gunshot wounds.
Behind him, a lean figure with military bearing and watchful eyes. Dorian was already assessing the threat level of the man walking beside his partner's little brother.
"Miles," Matthew said, relief evident in his voice. "You look like hell."
"Feel worse." I managed a weak smile. "Matthew, Dorian—this is Rowan Ashcroft. Rowan, my brother Matthew, and his partner Dorian."
I watched them all size each other up.
As we crossed the threshold into their converted warehouse home, an air of safety surrounded me like a cocoon.
Exposed brick walls climbed toward vaulted ceilings, but someone had softened the harsh edges with strategic lighting. A massive dining table dominated one end, and the large kitchen occupied a corner, with modern appliances embedded in reclaimed wood cabinetry.
"Miles!"
A blur of golden fur launched itself from a dog bed near the couch, all wagging tail and enthusiastic greeting. I dropped to one knee as Charlie planted his front paws on my chest and attempted to lick my face clean.
"Charlie, down," Dorian commanded, affection more than authority in his voice.
I grinned. "It's fine." I scratched behind Charlie's ears, and I started to relax. "Hey there, beautiful. Someone's spoiled rotten, aren't they?"
"That would be Matthew's fault", Dorian said. "Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?"
"Tea sounds perfect." I stood, Charlie circling my legs like he'd found a new best friend. "You know how much I love your place."
I watched Matthew navigate the kitchen—opening cabinets without looking, knowing the location of everything he needed. There was something beautiful about domestic choreography.
Rowan stood near the dining table, studying the apartment's defensive positions with professional interest. "Good setup," he told Dorian. "Clear sight lines, multiple exits, and I'm guessing the security system downstairs extends up here?"
"Motion sensors, cameras on all approaches, and reinforced entry points." Dorian pulled out chairs around the table. "Former clients sometimes hold grudges. Occupational hazard of protecting people from stalkers and abusive partners."
"Rowan used to be FBI," I said, settling into a chair while Charlie claimed a spot at my feet.
"Used to be?" Matthew set a steaming mug in front of me.
"Long story." Rowan accepted his own mug from Dorian. "Short version: institutional politics and my conscience couldn't coexist."
