18 – In the Quiet Aftermath: Secrets and Survival

In the Quiet Aftermath: Secrets and Survival

In the aftermath of a weekend disappearing act, silence speaks louder than words.
When trust wavers, what will survive—sibling bonds or fractured hearts?

The curry had hit that point where it stopped pretending to be dinner and started being evidence.

Plastic containers sat open on the table, lids stacked off to one side like abandoned shields. The kitchen was warm with cumin and cardamom, with the faint medicinal bite of red wine in the air. The safehouse itself ticked and hummed around them, quiet in that way old buildings got when they’d seen worse and decided not to bother reacting.

Pam sat at the table, one foot hooked around the rung of her chair, glass tilted just shy of reckless. She looked annoyingly fresh for someone on her second pour. Dar leaned back in her chair, clutching her half-full glass of wine and laughing, as she tried not to think about how good it felt to have her best friend for company tonight.

Pam took a thoughtful sip, then brightened as if she’d been waiting for her cue.

“Right,” she announced. “Curry conquered. Wine opened. Emotional stability… pending.” She slid off the chair and pointed toward the fridge with the confidence of a general planning an invasion. “I say we go in for the tiramisu now, before we start making life choices.”

Dar’s stomach dropped. Just a fraction. Long enough to betray her.

She cleared her throat. “About that.”

Pam turned her head slowly. Too slowly. “Dar-ling.”

Dar exhaled, the sound of someone stepping onto thin ice in wool socks. “Callum and I… ate it. Last night.”

The room went still. Even the fridge seemed to hesitate.

Pam blinked once. Twice. “You ate my tiramisu,” she said, calm to the point of threatening.

“There were mitigating circumstances,” Dar offered, because it was that or confess she’d needed something sweet enough to drown out the taste of panic. “I was going to replace it.”

Pam stared at her for a beat, then laughed, sharp and delighted. “Oh, I knew it. You don’t lose tiramisu to sadness. You lose it to a man.” She lifted her glass like a weapon. “Fine. I’ll forgive you. But only because this means I get details. And because frankly…” She refilled her wineglass and bumped Dar’s shoulder with her hip. “Anyone who eats dessert before dinner is clearly already compromised.”

Dar felt heat creep up her neck. “It wasn’t like that.”

Pam’s eyes glittered. “Sure.”

Dar looked over to the sink as Pam poured more wine for her. In the drying rack, the mugs sat lined up by size; spoons nested neatly in the cutlery holder. Callum’s precision, left behind like a fingerprint.

Still, her mouth twitched despite her best efforts, and Pam made a satisfied humming sound like she’d just won something.

Morning punished her for the wine.

The air off the river was cool and sharp, feeling as though it slid right under your skin and stayed there. Dar set her pace anyway, breath steady, jaw set, trainers thudding softly along the path. Her head carried a low, persistent thrum. Not quite pain. More a reminder that “just one more glass” had been an outright lie.

She kept running because stopping meant thinking.

Her run with Callum looped in her head without asking permission. She shortened her stride. Loose shoulders. Don’t fight the ground.

Don’t fight the ground. Don’t fight the feeling that the house had gone too quiet. Don’t fight the urge to check her phone every five minutes, like that would drag her team back from the range.

Mist lifted in thin ribbons off the water as the sun climbed. For a few minutes the world narrowed to breath and rhythm, and the ache behind her eyes eased.

Then the path dipped near an old knot of roots.

Her foot landed wrong. The ankle rolled and heat shot up her calf so fast it stole her breath. She hissed, stumbled, caught herself before pride could send her sprawling.

“Fantastic,” she muttered, hands braced on her knees.

She tested her weight carefully. It held, barely, but the ankle complained with a tight, blooming ache that promised to get worse if she got cocky.

This is what I get for curry, wine, and proving a point.

Dar turned back toward the safehouse at a measured walk, irritation simmering under determination. It wasn’t serious. She knew her own body, knew the difference between damage and drama. But it was enough to make one thing clear.

She was going to ice it, tape it, and still show up for the next run.

Even if she had to limp there first.

By the time the men got back from the Midland exercise, darkness was settling in for the night, and Dar was semi-reclined on the big leather chair with a blanket over her legs, the documentary playing more as noise than entertainment. The front door opened, and heavy boots came in with the cold air.

Malik nodded at her on his way to the basement.

Sean threw a quick, “Miss me?” and vanished upstairs, moving with the frantic speed of a man racing other people to the hot water. He looked wrecked. Stubble. Dark circles. The kind of exhaustion that came from forty-eight hours running hot.

At least he was grinning and breathing.

Logan dropped his bag in the hallway outside his suite and came into the living room like he belonged there, because he did. Sunglasses still on despite the dying light. That alone told her he was running on fumes and habit.

“Hey, sis,” he said, and tried for casual. “Survive the weekend without us?”

Dar kept her eyes on the TV and smoothed the blanket as if it needed managing. “Define survive.”

Logan waited. He always waited, like patience were a weapon.

Finally, she glanced over. He had that look. Sheepish. The look he’d worn when they were kids and he’d broken something expensive and hoped charm would cover it.

“So,” she said, because if she didn’t start the conversation she’d start an argument. “How was live fire? Anyone lose an eye?”

“All accounted for.” He was already halfway to the kitchen. “Want anything?”

“No thanks.”

Two minutes later he was back with a beer and a posture that pretended the weekend hadn’t happened. He sat, legs wide, feet firmly on the floor.

“Circus,” he said. “Malik nearly lit his own arse on fire. Again. Sean cried for his mama.” He paused, testing for a reaction. Dar gave him nothing. “No casualties. Yet. Rhys is still in the field. Back tomorrow or Tuesday.”

Dar’s throat tightened at the name. She kept her face neutral.

“You cleaned,” Logan observed, eyes scanning the room.

“Did so.”

“So what happened?” he asked lightly. “Pam come over? You finally snap and go full Marie Kondo?”

Dar cycled through answers and discarded each one. Logan was a human polygraph. If she lied outright, he’d know. If she dodged too hard, he’d dig.

Partial truth was the only play.

“Pam was busy Friday night,” she said. “Callum stopped by.”

Logan’s bottle froze halfway to his mouth. His eyebrows climbed. “Did he now.”

“He was in the area.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he mentioned you lot got pulled for a live-fire package,” Dar added, voice steady with effort. “Which you forgot to tell me.”

Logan grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Sorry. I thought Calder told you, since he was here. It was fast turnaround, and you know how Calder is about comms discipline. No phones, no…”

“I know the drill, Lo.” The softness slipped into her tone despite her. She hated it could. “I’m not mad. Callum filled me in.”

Logan’s gaze tracked over her face like he was reading tiny faults in the paint. “He stopped by just to tell you we’d gone dark?”

“More or less.”

“At night?”

“It was evening,” Dar snapped, and instantly chastised herself for it.

“And stayed long enough to do the washing-up?” Logan had spotted the drying rack in the kitchen. Precise. Callum. “That’s not a five-minute check-in, sis. That’s… domestic.”

Dar knew her blush was betraying her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

His teasing edge fell away. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m not. I’m reading the room. Did something happen when you realised we’d gone dark? Did you…” He hesitated, and the word he chose was gentler than the one he was thinking. “Did you panic?”

Dar’s mouth tasted like metal.

“Not like before,” she said, because he deserved that much truth. “But enough that he noticed.”

Logan’s face shifted. Guilt. Concern. That protective streak he’d carried since they were teenagers, and it had been him and her against everyone else.

“Dar…”

“It’s fine,” she cut in, too fast. Brittle. “He made tea, we talked, he left. That’s all.” She met Logan’s eyes and held them. “I’m fine.”

Logan didn’t argue, but she saw him clock the careful phrasing. The gaps.

He exhaled hard. “I should’ve texted you sooner. Or got Calder to…”

“You were on a mission. Comms blackout. It’s not your fault.”

She reached across the couch arm and caught his wrist. Logan didn’t like being touched. Never had. He tensed automatically, then forced himself still because it was her.

“Lo,” she said quietly. “I’m okay. Callum helped. End of story.”

He studied her for a long moment, weighing what she’d said against what she hadn’t. Finally, he nodded once. “Alright. But for the record, I’m glad he checked in. And I’m glad you let him.”

“Don’t make it a thing.”

Logan’s grin flashed, quick and boyish and infuriating. “Too late. It’s already a thing. Wait till Rhys hears. He’s going to lose his mind.”

“Logan.” The warning in her voice was real.

“Relax,” he said, hands up. “I’m not announcing it at dinner. But you know him. He’s got a sixth sense for this stuff.”

Dar’s pulse ticked in her throat. She kept her voice casual by force. “He might already know. He’s not still in Midland. Veyr sent him to Berlin. With Callum.”

Logan didn’t miss a beat, but the stillness that followed was its own reaction. His jaw tightened under the stubble. The sunglasses hid his eyes, and the situation was no longer amusing.

“Well then,” he said, and the cheer was gone. “Not unless Callum tells him.”

He stood, stretching until his spine cracked, and pointed at her without looking. “Also, did you seriously eat Pam’s tiramisu? She’s going to murder you.”

Dar’s face went hot. “How did you…”

“Empty container in the bin,” Logan said, grin returning like a mask. “No way you ate that solo. So Callum came over, made tea, washed dishes, and helped you polish off emergency dessert. Definitely not a thing though, got it.”

“Stay out of my kitchen.”

“It’s our kitchen,” he called over his shoulder. “Communal. Remember?”

He paused in the hallway, glanced back, and the grin softened into something else.

“Seriously,” he said. “I’m glad you weren’t alone. And I’m glad…it was him.”

Then he was gone, boots thundering down the hall, leaving Dar with a lukewarm mug and the uncomfortable knowledge that she’d just handed her brother ammunition.

And that part of her was relieved to have done it.

Logan shut the door to his suite and leaned back against it, as though it could hold him up.

He rubbed at the scar by his temple, an old habit that usually meant one thing: he’d fucked up.

He’d known the live-fire package would force comms discipline. He’d known Dar would be left with nothing but a quiet house and her own head. He’d told himself Calder would handle it, that he would at least leave her a simple message. What the hell, Rhys?

He pulled his phone out and texted Pam before he could overthink it.

‘Back. You seen Dar this weekend?’

Pam’s reply came in fast and furious.

‘Christ on a cracker, Logan Ward! You lot let her think you were popping out for milk? She’s been analysing intel alone all weekend while you’ve been playing soldier in a muddy field. And FYI, that new bloke was sniffing around. Major Stroud. All sharp edges and satellite feeds. Dar went for a run with him yesterday morning. Tension thick enough to frost a cake.’

Logan’s teeth ground together. Stroud. Of course Veyr would send someone competent and inconvenient right as Rhys decided to play gatekeeper.

He typed back, thumbs tight.

‘Rhys should’ve told her. She’s pissed. Can’t fault her.’

Then he paused, staring at the screen.

‘Pam, is Callum a problem or a solution?’

He hated the question as he sent it. Hated that he even had to think like that about someone who’d shown up when his sister needed a human being.

As if ready for the confrontation, Pam fired back her words.

‘Rhys should’ve told her. That’s your defense? Bloody hell. Dar deserves more than radio silence and field rations. Callum’s been circling, and not in a bad way. He’s reading her. Watching. She lets him. Rhys won’t like it.’

Logan swore under his breath and rubbed his temple again.

‘Rhys doesn’t explain shit to anyone,’ he typed. ‘You know that. I would’ve told her if I’d known he hadn’t.’

He hesitated, then added the part he meant.

‘If Stroud hurts her, I hurt him.’

His thumb hovered, then he wrote what he couldn’t ignore.

‘And they ate your tiramisu Friday. Were you here?’

Pam’s response was a flood. A corporate catering clusterfuck, apparently. Dar had company both nights. Stroud on Friday, Pam last night. Rhys ghosting Dar was a real arsehole move. Callum wasn’t just running with her; he was learning her. The implication was there without Pam saying it outright.

Logan shoved the phone in his pocket, yanked the door open, and marched down the hall before he hesitated.

If he waited, he’d talk himself into letting it lie.

If he let it lie, Dar would keep swallowing it until it poisoned something that didn’t deserve it.

He stopped in the dining room and looked back at the living room. Dar was still on the sofa, eyes on the screen, blanket pulled tighter like armour.

The shower ran upstairs. The basement door stayed shut. Good. No audience.

“Dar,” he called, voice harder than he intended. “Kitchen. You and me. Coffee. Now.”

Her glare could’ve stripped paint. She paused the show, dislodged the cat from her lap with a muttered apology, and stood.

She didn’t rush. She made him wait for every step, as if reminding him she wasn’t his subordinate.

Good, he thought. Let her be angry.

Logan didn’t so much make coffee as he declared war on the new espresso machine.

Dar watched him from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves bunched at her wrists. Twigs wove around her ankles like she was supervising.

“You bellowed?” She asked, voice flat. Carefully measured. “And I don’t owe you a damn thing about Callum, Logan. You don’t get to disappear for three days and then demand explanations.”

Logan pulled two mugs from the drying rack without looking up. Black coffee, no fuss. He slid one across the island.

“You’re right,” he said. “I disappeared.”

Dar’s jaw tightened. The apology should’ve softened her. It didn’t. Not yet.

“And you’re still breathing,” Logan added, like he needed to fill the silence with something lighter. “So you handled it.”

“Handled it,” she repeated, and her laugh came out sharp. “Is that what we’re calling it? I suppose courtesy won’t be necessary if I’m left alone long enough.”

Logan’s shoulders went a fraction rigid. He took a sip, then set his mug down and finally looked at her properly.

His gaze dropped to her ankle.

The bruise was visible under her leggings, angry and dark.

“Was that from your run with Callum?” he asked.

Dammit, Pam! “My run this morning,” she said.

Logan’s mouth tightened. “Pam said Callum’s reading you. I need to know if he’s a problem or a solution.”

The words landed wrong. Problem. Solution. Like she was a puzzle he could fix if he picked the right tool.

Something inside her went cold.

“You need to know,” she echoed.

Logan leaned his hip against the counter, trying for calm. “I’m not asking as your brother,” he said, and that was the first lie. “I’m asking as the guy who has to pull you out when it goes sideways.”

Dar’s hands curled into the sleeves of her hoodie. “Right. Because that’s what I am to you. Something to haul out of rubble.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.” Her voice cracked at the edges, and she hated herself for giving him that. “Callum isn’t a problem. He’s the only one who didn’t treat me like a liability this weekend.”

Logan straightened fast, like she’d slapped him. “You’re not a liability.”

She held his gaze, unflinching. “Then stop acting like I need managing.”

Logan drew a slow breath. The brother in him pushed forward, the one who knew when to stop pushing and start listening.

“Okay,” he said. “Tell me what I missed.”

Dar’s throat tightened again, but the anger had momentum now and she couldn’t stop it.

“You missed that I’m part of this team,” she said. “That’s how you and Calder sold this safehouse conversion. The bolthole. The family. All that.” Her mouth twisted. “Then you all vanished without a word and left me in here to guess whether it was routine or whether I should start planning for bodies.”

Logan’s face went pale under the stubble. He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded once like he was taking the hit on purpose.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I should’ve found a way to tell you.”

Dar’s eyes burned. She looked away, because if she didn’t, she’d do something humiliating like cry in her own kitchen.

“And you should know,” she added, voice rough, “Stroud was sent to Berlin to do recon for Veyr since you guys were unreachable. Even had the decency to inform me he was going.”

Logan went still. “Berlin,” he repeated.

“Rhys didn’t brief you?” Dar asked, and the bitterness was immediate. “Of course he didn’t.”

A muscle ticked near Logan’s temple. He stared at his coffee like it had answers. “No,” he said. “He didn’t.”

He set the mug down carefully this time, like he didn’t trust his hands.

“You’re right,” he said. “I owe you more than an apology.”

Dar waited, arms still crossed, because she didn’t trust softness yet. Softness got used against you. Softness got called weakness.

Logan lifted his gaze to hers. The sunglasses were gone. His eyes were tired and stubborn, and very familiar.

“If you’re running solo intel while we’re blacked out,” he said, “that’s a problem. Not you. The setup.” He swallowed. “We fix it. Starting now.”

Dar wanted to bite back. Wanted to say he didn’t get to decide what got fixed and when. But the truth was, she’d wanted this from the start. Someone in the house who knew what she knew. Someone who could take a piece of the weight without making her feel like she’d dropped it.

“Rhys will want everything,” she said, because it was safer to argue logistics than emotion. “He’ll want it filtered through him. He’ll want control. But I don’t answer to him.  There was no ambiguity; my reporting line is directly to Veyr.  Only her.”

“Rhys doesn’t get to gatekeep intel when you’re holding the map,” Logan said, and there it was. The brotherliness, blunt and protective. “You brief Veyr. But keep me in the loop, yeah?” He tapped his chest once. “Me. Because if this house is our bolthole, I need to know who’s walking through the door.”

Dar’s jaw clenched, but something eased in her chest despite herself.

Logan’s gaze dropped to her ankle again. The corner of his mouth twitched. “And who’s patching you up when you trip over your own pride.”

“Careful,” Dar said, but the bite had dulled. “Your tenderness is showing.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

She exhaled, long and shaky, and the brittleness cracked just enough to let something honest through.

“Callum is just a guy who didn’t leave me on read for three days,” she said. “If that makes him a ‘solution’ in your book, maybe the problem isn’t him.”

Logan’s face flickered. Shame. Acceptance. He nodded once.

“Fair,” he said.

Dar turned toward the freezer, limping without apology. She pulled out a cold pack and held it against her palm like she needed the sting to stay present.

“Briefing with Veyr at 1400 tomorrow,” she said, voice steadier now. “You’re welcome to sit in.”

Logan’s head snapped up. “Yeah?”

“But,” Dar continued, and the steel came back, clean and sharp, “you’re not running interference. And you’re not pulling rank. Not with me.”

Logan held her gaze. Then he nodded, slow and sure.

“1400,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

Dar paused at the kitchen doorway, cold pack in hand. Twigs trotted after her like she was escorting a dignitary.

“And Logan,” she said, without looking back. “Thanks for the coffee. And for not being a complete dick about it.”

Logan’s voice followed her, dry but softer than it had been all weekend. “Don’t spread it around. I’ve got a reputation.”

Dar managed a small, genuine smile as she took the stairs one careful step at a time.

A cold pack pressed to her ankle, Dar sat on her bed, allowing the the bruised skin to go numb.

The cat settled against her stomach, its rhythmic purr a desperate plea to quiet Dar’s racing thoughts.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number for half a heartbeat, then it resolved into Callum’s name.

‘They make it back okay?’

Dar stared at the screen. The sensible response was simple and final. Yes. Thanks. Goodnight. Clean line.

Instead, her thumbs moved.

‘Logan’s home. Already giving me grief about the tiramisu.’

The reply came quickly.

‘I’ll take the blame.’

Dar huffed a laugh before she could stop it. The sound surprised her, small and human in the quiet room.

Another message followed.

‘Wednesday. 0700 work?’

Dar’s ankle throbbed in answer, but her body wasn’t the point. Not really.

‘See you then’, she typed.

She set the phone face down on the duvet, like that made it less personal, then lay back and stared at the ceiling.


Downstairs, the house held its breath again, but it didn’t feel like abandonment now. It felt like people moving through familiar rooms. It felt like Logan in the kitchen, probably already planning how to bully Rhys into better comms without calling it bullying.

Logan. 1400 with Veyr.

Her invitation sat in her chest like a decision. A line drawn. Not a surrender. Not a plea.

Just a fact: she wasn’t doing this alone anymore.