Page 64 of Deadly Hope
She turned back to him, reading the conflict in his expression. The same doubt that had been gnawing at her mind. “We still have to try.”
“I know.” His eyes held hers.
“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “you have to play the hand you’re dealt.”
“Even when you know the deck is stacked?” There was something almost gentle in Axel’s question.
“Especially then.” Olivia picked up her go-bag. “Because that’s when you know exactly what game you’re really playing.”
They walked together off the plane. Tomorrow they would try to trap a man who had spent his life perfecting the art of deception. The man, she was convinced, that had her brother killed.
Somewhere in the space between truth and lies, justice and vengeance, they would find out exactly what game they were all really playing.
And who was dealing the cards.
37
Olivia gaveup on sleep around midnight, tired of staring at the unfamiliar ceiling of her borrowed room. Her mind wouldn’t stop cycling through tomorrow’s scenarios, each one ending in either triumph or disaster. The hallway floorboards creaked beneath her bare feet as she padded toward the kitchen, drawn by the scents of popcorn, gummy bears, and coffee—that peculiar combination she’d come to associate with pre-mission prep. Through the open door of the war room, she caught glimpses of Kenji and Margaret hunched over building schematics, while Deke’s voice drifted up from the basement, running through security for the hundredth time. Sleep, it seemed, would be scarce for everyone tonight.
The kitchen wasn’t empty. Axel stood at the counter, his back to her, measuring coffee grounds in the dim light above the sink. The familiar routine of it almost masked the tension in his shoulders, the way his movements seemed mechanical, divorced from conscious thought. He wore just a faded Army t-shirt and cargo pants, and Olivia noticed the exhaustion in the way he braced himself against the counter’s edge.
“Still running scenarios?” she asked softly, not wanting to startle him.
He nodded without turning. “Can’t afford any surprises tomorrow.”
The coffee grinder’s sudden whir shattered the midnight quiet—a harsh, mechanical growl that filled the kitchen. Olivia saw the exact moment it transformed in Axel’s mind into something else entirely. His spine went rigid, hands freezing on the counter’s edge. The grinder’s noise faded, but he remained locked in place, breath coming in shallow bursts.
She recognized that far-off look, typical among vets. The present moment disappeared, replaced by stubborn memories.
“Axel.” She kept her voice steady, professional—the voice she used in crisis intervention. No sudden movements as she stepped closer. “You’re in Hope Landing. In the kitchen. You’re safe.”
His knuckles were white where they gripped the counter, tendons standing out like cords. A muscle worked in his jaw, but his eyes remained fixed on something she couldn’t see.
“Feel the counter under your hands,” she continued, using the grounding techniques that had helped countless patients. “The temperature of the room. Listen to my voice. Can you name five things you can see right now?”
A shudder ran through him. “Counter,” he managed. “Coffee. Coffee maker. Window.” His breathing was evening out, though still too fast. “Your ... your necklace. The cross. The cricket.”
“Good.” She resisted the urge to touch him, knowing it could backfire. “Four things you can feel?”
“Counter. Floor.” He shifted his weight slightly. “My shirt. The air from the vent.”
As he listed each item, he got calmer, slowly letting thepresent take over from the past. When he finally turned to face her, awareness had returned to his eyes, along with something raw and unguarded she’d never seen there before.
For a heartbeat, the kitchen felt charged with unspoken things—trust and vulnerability and the weight of shared battles, though theirs were fought on different fields. The bowl of forgotten popcorn on the counter between them grew cold in the midnight quiet.
The vulnerability in his eyes hardened so quickly Olivia almost missed the transition. Axel straightened, deliberately releasing his death grip on the counter, and something in his expression shuttered closed.
“Don’t.” His voice had an edge she’d never heard before. “Whatever therapeutic technique you’re about to suggest—just don’t.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“Really?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Because from where I’m standing, Dr. Kane, you’ve got that same look you get with your patients. That careful, professional distance. Analyzing. Categorizing. Looking for symptoms to treat.”
The words hit like slaps. “That’s not fair.”
“No?” He stepped back, creating physical distance to match the emotional walls slamming into place. “I’m not one of your trauma cases. I’ve handled my own demons for years without a therapist, and I’ll keep handling them just fine.”
Olivia felt the sting of rejection bloom in her chest, but years of training kicked in. Her own walls rose, smooth and professional, as familiar as breathing. “Of course. I apologize for overstepping.”
