Page 42 of Vows We Never Made
Oof, touchy.
Getting more out of him feels like trying to milk a rock.
“Okay, fine. You went into the Army and you served your time—thank you, by the way. But what happened? Is that what kept you from coming home?”
“Portland isn’t really home,” he growls, raising an arrogant eyebrow again. “And what do you think happened, Pages? A cakewalk called Syria.”
“What, you mean it’s classified?”
He shakes his head.
Then he gives me nothing, staring at his plate as he eats.
The silence shoots heat through my veins. So does that ridiculous nickname.
Pages.
How many times did he snarl it with the ugliest tone when we were kids?
All because I loved to read and I could talk with Margot and Leo forever about grown-up subjects.
“You know what? Fine,” I snap. “Don’t talk to me then, asshole.”
A woman glances over from the next table.
I throw up a fake smile so bright it hurts.
Ethan presses his lips together, but this time I think it might be because he’s tempted to smile.
“I could only hack the military life for so long,” he says, his voice softening. “The place was a damn mess with so many groups at each other’s throats and you were always on edge, but it was doable. Later, we were stretched thin, and the government decided to get creative. That’s when the mercenaries came, private groups with a ton of leeway. That’s when I was done. They brought in bad actors, men who were happy to do things no ordinary soldier could get away with.”
“What things?” My pulse quickens.
His eyes are flat.
“Better you don’t know. It doesn’t matter now. That’s why I came around and made peace with the family business, after I had some time to clear my head out west. Compared to that snake pit overseas, Blackthorn Holdings didn’t have nearly as many vipers.”
“Oh,” I say lamely. “I suppose that’s understandable.”
This time, Ethan does smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re like the empty pages at the end of a book, blank and unreadable.
“Less danger, for one. In business, I’ll always make it home in one piece, even if I don’t follow orders like a wind-up toy. There’s also only half as many backstabbers.”
The bleakness in his expression chills me.
But there’s something else, too.
Some kind of guarded hurt that aches like a bruise when it’s touched. I also know he’s not going to talk about it for long if I keep poking.
“Tell me about you,” he says abruptly. He’s toying with the stem of his glass now, looking at me intently.
The weight of that question feels heavy, and my stomach squirms.
“Um.” I fumble around for my train of thought. “Well, nothing as interesting as your career, I’m sure.”
“Tell me. I haven’t been in this game that long. My career change doesn’t count for much.” His gaze sharpens. “Let me guess: college, work promotion? Margot always talked like you had it figured out from age ten. Surprised you weren’t married off by now—and damn good thing you weren’t, for my sake.”
My heart clenches.
