Page 103 of BounBound By Scars

This was all I needed.

Too bad I didn’t realize I would come to miss this night with a hollow, unrelenting ache.

TWENTY-FOUR

Kabir

“It’s crooked,” I said, nodding at Dylan’s tie.

We were in a blacked-out luxury SUV en route to the White House. Delara and Amelia were riding in a separate vehicle for security protocol—two cars meant more flexibility in an emergency, more ways out if shit hit the fan.

The drive from New York to D.C. had been uneventful. No tail, no alerts, just hours of Delara trying to get under Dylan’s skin with offhand remarks about me and Amelia. It was her favorite new hobby.

Dylan, true to form, hadn’t reacted once. Not a twitch, not a raised brow. Nothing. I couldn’t decide if it was his usual stoicism… or quiet acceptance. Maybe both. He hadn’t said a word about what I muttered to him last week.

Brother-in-law.

God help me, I still couldn’t believe I’d said it out loud.

Now, he was fiddling with his tie, trying to get the knot to sit straight. A frustrated snort left me before I could help it.

“You’re making it worse, brother.”

I swatted his hand away and took over, adjusting the knot, tightening it until it lay perfectly flat against his collar. That’s when I noticed it—a rare smirk creeping across his face.

“Don’t you mean—”

“Shut up,” I grumbled, cutting him off immediately. I gave his shoulder a shove and turned my attention to the window. Buildings blurred past. We were about three minutes out.

Then, without warning, his voice came—low, even, assured.

“You were serious about it?”

I didn’t look at him. Just nodded once, eyes still tracking the city around us.

“Yep.”

A beat passed.

“Good.”

That was it.

Just that.

No elaboration, no dramatic pause, no brotherly lecture. Just one word. And somehow, that one word landed harder than a damn monologue.

I would never understand his economy of language. It was like he assigned himself fifty words a year and rationed them like a war veteran.

We stopped right at the East Wing entrance.

The foyer of the White House was even more ornate than I’d imagined. Cream and gold interiors, velvet drapery, polished marble flooring reflecting the cascading chandeliers above. They’d kept the gala tucked between the Visitors’ Foyer and the Garden Room, keeping us far enough from the Situation Room—but close enough for tonight’s mission.

We stepped through the main entrance as diplomats from the Indo-Pacific Conflict Resolution Committee—a name Sebastian had fabricated with the help of one very convincing website and some actual diplomatic backchanneling.

As the security detail began conducting standard checks, I glanced at Amelia.

Fuck me.

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