Page 119 of Stolen Faith

He’d decided in that moment that they needed to lick their wounds somewhere different, staying somewhere that wasn’t attached to scary-as-fuck memories. Memories that had been way too fresh back in Atlanta. So, he’d looked at the mercenary and announced L.A. as their destination.

His regret over bringing Izabel, who’d designed her home for her trinity, into his house, which clearly was not, faded the instant they walked inside. He’d given them a tour, his fiancés both complimenting his style, which he could only assume meant comfortable and clean because God knew there were no other interior designer labels that fit. Most of his furniture had come from movie sets, gifted to him post wrap. Izabel proclaimed to love the warm colors, referring to the splashes of red, orange, and yellow in every room.

Tonight marked one week since they’d escaped Crossroads Salvation Church. So this morning, Brennon had declared it an anniversary and informed Rowan and Izabel they were going to celebrate with a special dinner of quesadillas and Dos Equis.

Brennon wasn’t exactly sure why things had felt different this morning, but all he knew was when he woke up, it felt as if a fog had lifted.

The first three days after their arrival in L.A., they’d either spent in bed—not in the fun way—or lounging on the couch like zombies. There hadn’t been a lot of talking, just chilling out in front of movies. Izabel had insisted they do a “Brenn-athon,” so they’d watched every movie he’d had a writing credit on. Other than that, they’d half-heartedly picked at the food they’d had delivered and napped.

He and Izabel had claimed the king-size bed in his room, sleeping—just sleeping—together, her on one side, him on the other, with a foot and a half of empty space between them. Meanwhile, Rowan had opted to sleep in the queen bed in the guest room, not because he was pulling away from them but because of his injuries. Rowan had underplayed the pain he’d been suffering during their imprisonment, so the idea of sleeping in a bed alone, without the jostling of two extra bodies, was one he’d welcomed.

Izabel, good to her word, had dragged Rowan to the local hospital once the swelling subsided, getting the CT and MRI the doctor in Atlanta had suggested. The scans had come back good with no further injuries discovered.

And Rowan, clearly new to the concept of becoming a husband, had made the rookie mistake of hitting Izabel with the words “told you so,” which she didn’t take well, narrowing her eyes and giving him a wholly pissed-off look until he apologized.

The brief episode had amused Brennon way too much, and even now, he couldn’t remember it without chuckling to himself. At thirty-nine, he’d waited way too long to be married, looking forward to it like a kid anticipating Christmas or a young adult waiting to hit that twenty-first birthday.

Brennon’s cuts had scabbed over, and his bruises had almost made it through all the stages of color, moving from red to purple to blue to their now yellowish state. The soreness was gone, and his appetite, which had been lacking the first few days, had returned with a vengeance.

Yesterday, they’d all gone to their first individual therapy sessions, finding a local office that specialized in trauma. Two of the therapists had recently moved up from San Diego, where they’d worked with the VA and private practice with soldiers. When Izabel had called and briefly described what they’d experienced, they were each assigned a different counselor and worked into the schedule quickly.

After returning home from their initial sessions, they’d all retreated to different corners, needing time alone with their thoughts. Rowan had skipped dinner and gone straight to his bedroom. Izabel had taken a book and plopped herself down on an Adirondack in the backyard, though Brennon wasn’t sure she’d even cracked the spine on the thing.

As for him, he’d claimed his usual spot on the couch, mindlessly surfing through the TV channels without watching a single show. On several channels, he’d caught replayed footage from Juliette and Devon’s rescue or the press conference. They’d watched the press conference live, all of them still worried about the fate of the Trinity Masters, despite the Grand Master’s attempt to discredit their kidnappers and their crazy claims about a secret society.

Privately, Brennon had also worried someone would name them. Or at least Izabel and her parents. But the lawyers the church hired were keeping their clients quiet, and more than likely Juliette was pulling strings behind the scenes to keep them safe.

Izabel had retired before him that night, and he’d thought she would be asleep when he finally shut down the TV, turned out the lights, and walked into the bedroom. He trudged to the bed and lay down on his side, surprised when she’d shifted, rolling over and curling up in his arms. She hadn’t said a word, just settled right to sleep, nestled close, using his chest as a pillow, while Brennon lay there feeling like the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet as he recalled sleeping this same way with her in the basement cell of the church.

He’d told her he loved her in the reverend’s office, those three little words sliding out without thought, actually meant as a joke until he heard them aloud. Then he realized they’d been the most serious words he’d ever spoken, and they’d been on the tip of his tongue to say again to her last night.

He didn’t.

Not because he didn’t feel them but because he’d already made that proclamation once without Rowan around, and he didn’t want to do that again. When he declared his feelings for them—because fuck if he wasn’t head over heels for Rowan too—he wanted both of them there.

Perhaps that was why this morning had felt different to Brennon. For the first time, it felt as if their bodies and minds had healed enough that they could start focusing on something else—their hearts.

And that sense of turning a corner had only grown when Rowan had joined them in the kitchen, rattling around in the cabinets to find a skillet, then digging through the refrigerator for bacon and eggs.

For seven days, Izabel and Rowan had acted like guests in his home, but this morning it felt as if they were truly living together…in their home, not just Brennon’s.

Placing the tray of quesadillas on the table with a flourish, he claimed his own seat and lifted his beer bottle. Izabel and Rowan followed suit.

“To us,” Brennon said, and they both repeated the toast, their bottles clinking together.

“Hope you’re ready for an extraordinary culinary treat.” Brennon served them all slices of their chosen quesadillas.

“That good, huh?” Rowan asked, eyeballing his slice. Brennon had offered up countless flavor options this morning, making a list of necessary ingredients for his Instacart order. He’d been surprised when Rowan requested the Philly cheesesteak, until Rowan admitted that he’d spent the first ten years of his childhood there, moving to St. Louis after his dad got transferred for work.

Since talking about Joe’s death with them on the private jet, Rowan had been more open, sharing bits and pieces of himself, telling personal stories using actual paragraphs rather than giving them those single-word responses to their questions.

“Best you’ll ever have,” Brennon declared, though he was a little bit nervous. Rowan told him this morning he still dreamed of the Philly Cheesesteaks from Pat’s.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Rowan picked up his slice, taking a big bite. Brennon’s eyes were locked on his face, so he caught the exact moment when Rowan’s taste buds engaged. “Jesus, man,” Rowan replied before taking another bite. “Oh my God,” he murmured, his mouth full.

“I know,” Brennon’s reply was pure cockiness. “I’m waiting for someone to show up with my James Beard Award any day now.”

“This actually makes me homesick for Philly,” Rowan admitted.

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