Borrowed Pain: MM Romantic Suspense, page 12
"This isn't about pride. It's about survival. Yours and theirs."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"If they can't find you, they'll look for leverage. Family members become targets when the primary subject goes underground. The best way to protect your brothers is to ensure you have backup they can't eliminate."
"You're saying they'd go after Marcus? Michael? They're not involved in any of this."
"Neither were you, until you started asking questions about Iris." Rowan released my arm. "Professional killers don't distinguish between willing participants and stray targets."
My brothers had experienced their fair share of harrowing situations. I'd even gone along to lend… to help. Still, they had no idea their youngest brother was standing in a stairwell discussing professional killers.
"Matthew," I said finally. "He's... he might be able to help."
"The paramedic brother?"
"He has a partner, Dorian, a security consultant." I pulled out my phone to type a message. "They live in a converted warehouse, a lot like yours."
"Can you trust them?"
"With my life." I had no doubts about the loyalty of my brothers. "Matthew would burn down half of Seattle before he'd let someone hurt family."
Rowan nodded. "Make the call. Don't text."
We reached the lobby, and I hesitated with my phone halfway to my ear. Once I involved Matthew, there was no hiding the risk. It would be a family crisis, with all the protective chaos that entailed.
"You sure about this?" I asked Rowan.
"I'm sure that standing in your compromised building's lobby isn't a positive long-term survival strategy."
The phone rang twice before I heard Matthew's warm and slightly confused voice.
"Miles? You didn't text."
"Matthew." I glanced at Rowan, drawing strength from his steady presence. "I need help. Can't explain over the phone, but I need somewhere safe to stay tonight."
"What kind of help?" The warmth shifted to sharp concern. "Are you hurt? In danger?"
"Not hurt. But yes, danger." My voice cracked slightly. "I'm sorry to drag you into this, but I don't know where else—"
"Stop." Matthew's voice cut through my apology. "Address. Now."
"I'm at my apartment, but we need to leave—"
"We? Who's we?"
I glanced at Rowan, who nodded encouragingly. "I'm with someone. Rowan Ashcroft. He's... it's complicated."
"Is he the danger or the help?"
"Definitely help. Matthew, I know this sounds ridiculous, but someone's been watching me and listening to my therapy sessions. Michael knows. We found surveillance equipment in my apartment."
"Come to ours. Now. Don't take main streets, don't stop anywhere, and call me immediately if you think someone's following you."
"Matthew—"
"Dorian's already pulling up security footage from the street cameras. We'll be ready." His voice softened. "Miles, whatever this is, we'll figure it out. Just get here safe."
The line went dead. I stared at my phone, processing what had just happened. No questions about why I hadn't called earlier. No demands for detailed explanations. Only unquestioned support.
"Family sounds useful," Rowan observed.
"Family is terrifying," I corrected. "You'll understand when you meet them."
"Tell me about Dorian," Rowan said as he wound the car through residential streets.
"Former Army intelligence. Afghanistan left him with scars—PTSD, hypervigilance, the works—but he's been rebuilding. These days he runs a consulting firm that protects people who've been stalked or threatened. He's relentless about keeping others safe."
Rowan checked the rearview mirror. "And Matthew?"
"They met at a crash scene. Dorian was wrecked—bleeding, barely holding it together—and Matthew was the paramedic who pulled him out alive."
Rowan's eyes stayed on the road. "And Dorian will trust me?"
"He'll trust Matthew's read. And Matthew trusts mine—usually."
"There," I pointed toward a converted brick warehouse. "Home sweet temporary home."
Rowan parked across the street, studying the building's defensive positions. "Good sight lines, multiple access points, and industrial neighbors likely to mind their own business."
"Now you sound like Dorian." I grabbed my suitcase from the backseat while Rowan retrieved a bag from the trunk. "Ready to meet the family?"
"Are they ready to meet a former federal agent with trust issues and a tendency toward obsessive investigation?"
"Matthew once dated a guy who collected vintage mannequins and spoke only in movie quotes. Dorian's friends include someone making artisanal hot sauce for a living and another breeding rescue pit bulls. Trust me, you'll fit right in."
The front door opened, and Matthew stood silhouetted in the doorway, medical bag slung over his shoulder, prepared for anything from a twisted ankle to gunshot wounds.
Behind him, a lean figure with military bearing and watchful eyes. Dorian was already assessing the threat level of the man walking beside his partner's little brother.
"Miles," Matthew said, relief evident in his voice. "You look like hell."
"Feel worse." I managed a weak smile. "Matthew, Dorian—this is Rowan Ashcroft. Rowan, my brother Matthew, and his partner Dorian."
I watched them all size each other up.
As we crossed the threshold into their converted warehouse home, an air of safety surrounded me like a cocoon.
Exposed brick walls climbed toward vaulted ceilings, but someone had softened the harsh edges with strategic lighting. A massive dining table dominated one end, and the large kitchen occupied a corner, with modern appliances embedded in reclaimed wood cabinetry.
"Miles!"
A blur of golden fur launched itself from a dog bed near the couch, all wagging tail and enthusiastic greeting. I dropped to one knee as Charlie planted his front paws on my chest and attempted to lick my face clean.
"Charlie, down," Dorian commanded, affection more than authority in his voice.
I grinned. "It's fine." I scratched behind Charlie's ears, and I started to relax. "Hey there, beautiful. Someone's spoiled rotten, aren't they?"
"That would be Matthew's fault", Dorian said. "Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?"
"Tea sounds perfect." I stood, Charlie circling my legs like he'd found a new best friend. "You know how much I love your place."
I watched Matthew navigate the kitchen—opening cabinets without looking, knowing the location of everything he needed. There was something beautiful about domestic choreography.
Rowan stood near the dining table, studying the apartment's defensive positions with professional interest. "Good setup," he told Dorian. "Clear sight lines, multiple exits, and I'm guessing the security system downstairs extends up here?"
"Motion sensors, cameras on all approaches, and reinforced entry points." Dorian pulled out chairs around the table. "Former clients sometimes hold grudges. Occupational hazard of protecting people from stalkers and abusive partners."
"Rowan used to be FBI," I said, settling into a chair while Charlie claimed a spot at my feet.
"Used to be?" Matthew set a steaming mug in front of me.
"Long story." Rowan accepted his own mug from Dorian. "Short version: institutional politics and my conscience couldn't coexist."
Dorian nodded like that explained everything. "I know the feeling. Some fights are worth more than careers."
Matthew settled into a chair beside me. "Want to tell us what's happening?"
I slowly described what we knew from Iris Delacroix to Tobias Rook's diner meltdown.
"They know where you work, live, and probably where your family lives," Dorian said. "If this network has the kind of institutional connections you suggest, they'll have access to databases most criminals only dream about."
"Which means staying ahead of them requires thinking like them," Rowan replied.
I listened to Dorian and Rowan strategize while Matthew refilled our mugs. Charlie rolled over on his back, asking for a belly rub.
"There's something else," I said during a pause in the tactical discussion. "We think we know who's been feeding us information from inside the system."
I told them about our growing suspicion that Patricia Hendricks had played a dangerous double game for years. "She's been documenting violations while appearing to protect the facilities responsible, but now they're onto her. Rook got an emergency call during the meeting with Miles."
"So you've got two federal fugitives somewhere in the Seattle area, probably trying to evade capture while protecting evidence that could expose this entire network," Dorian summarized.
"That's about the size of it."
Matthew stood, moving toward the kitchen. "Okay. You're both staying here tonight, obviously. Tomorrow, we figure out how to contact your sources without getting everyone killed."
"Matthew, we can't ask you to—"
"You're not asking. I'm telling." He started pulling ingredients from the cabinets and the refrigerator. "Ma raised us to take care of family. You're family. Rowan's with you, so he's family now, too."
I watched him work—chopping vegetables, heating oil in a pan, and adding spices. Dorian joined him, wordlessly taking over the prep work while Matthew managed the stovetop.
"They do this often?" Rowan asked quietly.
"Cook together? Every night. Matthew stress-cooks like you bake. Dorian enables him because the food's amazing, and it keeps Matthew's hands busy when he's processing his EMT work."
Twenty minutes later, we sat around the dining table sharing what Matthew claimed was "just pasta with whatever was in the refrigerator," but tasted like something from a restaurant that charged $40 a plate.
"This is incredible," Rowan said after his first bite.
"Family recipe," Matthew replied. "Meaning I called Ma three times last month until I got the seasoning right."
We ate in comfortable quiet, punctuated by Charlie's hopeful whining and Dorian's occasional updates from the security monitors downstairs. "When you need sleep, the guest room's ready," Dorian said as we finished eating. "Fresh sheets, towels in the bathroom, and the security system covers that building section."
I glanced at Rowan. Guest room singular. One bed. He appeared unfazed.
"Thank you." I looked around the table. "All of you. I don't know how to—"
"You don't have to know how," Matthew interrupted. "That's what family is for. Showing up when everything goes to hell. Then, we can figure it out together."
The guest room continued the industrial-meets-domestic aesthetic—exposed brick walls softened by warm lighting. Rowan took it all in stride. "Your family's impressive," he said, settling onto the edge of the bed.
"They're protective to a fault, but yeah." I sat beside him, our shoulders touching. "Matthew's been taking care of people since Dad died. It's what he does."
"And Dorian?"
"Protects the protector."
Rowan was quiet for a moment, studying his hands. "I've been alone for so long, I'd forgotten what a healthy partnership looks like."
"Is that what we're doing? Partnership?"
He turned to face me, and he answered directly without a hitch. "I hope so. Professional and personal."
Outside the guest room's windows, the industrial landscape stretched toward the canal, shipping containers and cranes silhouetted against the city's glow. Somewhere out there, Rook and Hendricks were probably hiding.
I was surrounded by the warmth of family and a man who saw a future for us. Rowan unlaced his boots with methodical precision while I stood and walked to the window.
"You can see the canal from here," I said, needing something to fill the silence. "Dorian mentioned he sometimes walks down there when he needs to think."
"Miles, you don't have to make small talk with me."
I returned and sat on the bed's opposite edge. Rowan unbuttoned his shirt. His skin was pale against the brick, the lines of his shoulder blades sharp.
He was lean, nothing wasted. His jaw flexed as he looked back at me. He placed the boots neatly beside the bed.
I closed the small space between us and reached for him, fingers trembling at the first touch—ridiculous how nervous I still was around him. He didn't move. He let me close the gap and decide how close was close enough.
As I leaned in, Rowan's lips parted against mine. I hooked a hand behind his neck, thumb tracing the fine hairs at the base of his skull.
He lay back on the bed, pulling me with him. The mattress creaked under our combined weight.
Rowan pushed up into the kiss, slowly grinding his hips against me. Rowan's hands moved up my back, not tentative—testing the tightness of each muscle along my spine, finding the places I'd tried to hide tension. He cupped my shoulders and held me tightly.
I unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it to the side of the bed while Rowan finished removing his. I slid my palm along his ribs and felt the sharp rise and fall of his breathing.
He was all strength under warm skin, broader through the shoulders than his clothes suggested. I wanted to see every inch of him while he gazed approvingly at my awkward, slim chest.
Rowan rolled me over, bracing his arms to box me in. I grinned up at him, loving how his hair fell forward, and how he ran his tongue over his teeth before kissing me again.
I threaded my hands behind his neck and pulled him down until we were chest to chest, his abs pressed against me. Rowan's hand slipped under the waistband of my jeans, palm splayed hot and wide over the small of my back.
I reached between us and undid the button on his jeans, grinning at his sharp inhale. He was hard, cock straining against the zipper, and I traced the outline through the fabric.
He nuzzled my jaw and kissed along the angle of my collarbone, then bit down, leaving a mark that would last days. He stripped me with military efficiency, jeans yanked down and off before I could blink.
When he pressed his thigh between mine, all I wanted was to say yes, take me, let's get lost together. Still, there was a line in my head, a flickering caution that said not tonight, not after everything. Maybe I needed to prove I could still control something.
I slowed him with a hand on his chest, feeling the wild rabbit thud of his heart. "Wait," I said, voice shaky. "Can we just—"
I spotted a brief flicker of confusion, but it softened, and he nodded. He lay on his side and tugged me with him until we were both horizontal, face to face. His skin was warm. Our legs tangled, bare feet touching, the scrape of his stubble against my jaw grounding me in the moment.
We kissed again, slower this time. I trailed my fingers down the ridge of his spine, feeling each notch. It was a new experience—sharing a bed for the comfort of another man's presence. I let myself lean into it, into him.
Rowan nuzzled the side of my head, exhaling against my hair. "Is this okay?" he murmured.
I nodded, eyes shut, letting the world outside the soft circle of his arms dissolve. "This is perfect," I said. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by the comforting weight of safety.
Chapter twelve
Rowan
Miles paced the floor for the third time in ten minutes. His bare feet whispered heel-toe, heel-toe—a rhythm matching my accelerating pulse. The warehouse amplified every sound: the traffic's distant hum and Charlie's nails clicking as he followed Miles.
"They'll be here soon," Miles said, not slowing. His hair stuck up where he'd been running his hands through it. "Marcus is always early. Military precision."
"Are you worried they'll disapprove of the damaged federal agent you've dragged into a family crisis?"
Miles stopped pacing. "I'm worried they'll try to lock me in protective custody until this blows over."
The intercom buzzed.
"That's them," Matthew called, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "I'll get it."
Miles straightened his shoulders. "Breathe," I told him.
"I am breathing."
"No, you're hyperventilating in a controlled manner. There's a difference."
Charlie bounded toward the door to greet the first arrivals. Marcus McCabe filled the doorframe with broad shoulders and a commanding presence. Behind him, a lean man carried a tablet, looking every ounce the rumpled academic.
"James," Miles said, moving toward them. "Thanks for coming."
James accepted a warm hug. "Wouldn't be anywhere else."
Miles turned to his oldest brother. Marcus's gaze swept the warehouse's defensive positions before landing on me.
"You must be Ashcroft." He extended his hand, offering a firm grip. "I've heard about your work."
"Some of it, anyway." I accepted the handshake while Charlie wound between our legs. "The parts that don't require security clearance."
"Marcus McCabe. This is James Reynolds, my partner."
Before any of us could say more, the intercom buzzed again. Different energy this time—urgent and protective.
Michael McCabe emerged, scanning the room before his gaze settled on Miles. Behind him, a man with dark hair and calm eyes radiated a steady presence.
"Jesus, Miles." Michael crossed the space in three strides, pulling his youngest brother into a fierce embrace. "When's the last time you slept?"
"Good to see you too, sunshine."
The man behind Michael approached more slowly, offering Miles a gentler hug. "We came as fast as we could. Michael barely stopped for gas."
"Eight-hour drive in six and a half hours," Michael said, releasing Miles but keeping one hand on his shoulder. "Luna's still carsick in the truck."
"You brought the dog?"
Alex spoke with affectionate exasperation. "Try leaving her behind when Michael believes you're in mortal danger. She howled for twenty minutes straight."
Michael shifted his attention to me. "So you're the podcaster who's got my baby brother chasing federal conspiracies."
"I like to say former federal agent, currently a podcaster. And your brother found me, not the other way around."
"Same difference if you both end up in the crosshairs."
