SINS OF MY BROTHER'S BROTHER

THE NIGHT BEFORE

The day blurs into evening.

We work until the city lights replace sunlight, until coffee becomes the only thing keeping us functional, until the profile of Victor Ashworth grows thick enough to weaponize.

By 10 PM, I have what I need.

Not everything — a man like Victor has layers I'll never fully excavate — but enough. Enough to understand his patterns. Enough to predict his responses. Enough to give Lysander a script that might actually work.

"That's it for tonight," Dante announces. His voice is hoarse from hours of coordinating, commanding, controlling. "Everyone get some sleep. We reconvene at 6 AM."

The room slowly empties. Kieran disappears without a word — he's been getting quieter as the day progressed, his energy turning inward, sharpening into something I recognize from my patients. Planning violence. Roman takes a call in the hallway, his senator's voice muffled through the walls. Kon hovers near the doorway, waiting for shift assignment.

"I've got first watch," Ezra says. "Kon, you're relieved."

Kon hesitates. His eyes find mine — a question, a need, a silent are you okay?

I nod.

He leaves.

And then it's just me and Ezra in the dining room, surrounded by the wreckage of our war planning.

"You should sleep," he says.

"So should you."

"I don't sleep well." A pause. "You know that."

I do know. I remember the 2 AM conversation in the library, the way he appeared out of darkness like a ghost, the shudder that ran through him when I touched his arm.

"Come with me," I say.

He blinks. "What?"

"To my room. You're on watch anyway. Might as well do it from inside instead of standing in the hallway." I start gathering my notes. "And before you argue — I'm tired, you're tired, and neither of us sleeps well alone. Maybe proximity helps."

His expression does something complicated. Hope and fear and want, all tangled together.

"Irene, I can't — if I touch you again, I don't know if I can—"

"I'm not asking you to touch me." I meet his eyes. "I'm asking you to be with me. That's all. Just... presence. Can you do that?"

A long silence.

Then, quietly: "I can try."

My room feels different at night.

The city glows through the east-facing window, painting everything in shades of amber and shadow. The orange on my nightstand — still there, still untouched — catches the light like a small sun.

Ezra stands near the door, uncertain. His military rigidity is back, his body language screaming I don't belong here.

"Sit," I say, gesturing at the chair Kon occupied last night. "I'm going to change. I'll be back in a minute."

I disappear into the bathroom before he can argue.

When I emerge — soft clothes, face washed, armor stripped away — he's sitting exactly where I indicated. But something has shifted. His shoulders are slightly less tense. His breathing slightly more even.

Progress.

I climb into bed. Pull the covers up. Face him.

"Tell me something," I say.

"What?"

"Anything. Something that has nothing to do with Victor or stalkers or surveillance. Something... normal."

He's quiet for a moment. Processing the request like it's a tactical challenge.

"I used to build things," he says finally. "Before the military. Woodworking. My grandfather taught me."

I didn't expect that. "What kind of things?"

"Furniture, mostly. Chairs, tables, bookshelves. Things that lasted." A ghost of something — not quite a smile, but close — crosses his face. "I was good at it. Better at it than I am at... this."

"At what? Protecting people?"

"At being around people." He looks at his hands. "Wood doesn't flinch when you touch it. Doesn't ask questions. Doesn't need you to be anything other than patient and precise."

"Do you still build?"

"No." The word is flat. Final. "After Mosul, I couldn't. My hands—" He stops. Flexes his fingers. "They shake. Sometimes. Not enough to affect my shooting, but enough to ruin any fine work."

My chest aches for him. This man who was good at creating things, reduced to destruction because trauma stole his steadiness.

"Maybe they'll heal," I say softly.

"Maybe." He doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe I'm just... broken. Permanently. Some things don't come back."

"I don't believe that."

He looks up. "No?"

"No. I've seen people recover from things that should have destroyed them completely. The human psyche is more resilient than we give it credit for." I hold his gaze. "You're not broken, Ezra. You're adapting. There's a difference."

Something moves behind his eyes. That desperate hope again, fighting against years of self-condemnation.

"You really believe that?"

"I work with people who've done the worst things imaginable. If I didn't believe in the capacity for change, I couldn't do my job." I pull the covers closer. "And I believe in you. Specifically. Not just generically."

"Why?"

"Because you're here. In this room, talking to me, trying to be present despite everything in you that wants to run. That takes more courage than anything you've done in combat. I promise you."

He doesn't respond. But his breathing changes — slower, deeper, like something has loosened in his chest.

"Sleep," he says finally. "I'll be here."

"I know you will."

I close my eyes.

And for the second night in a row, I sleep.

I wake to the sound of screaming.

Not external — internal. Ragged breaths, choked sounds, the unmistakable rhythm of a nightmare being lived.

Ezra.

I'm out of bed before I'm fully conscious, crossing the room to where he's collapsed in the chair — body rigid, face contorted, hands clawing at the armrests like he's trying to escape something only he can see.

"Ezra." I don't touch him — I know better. Touch during a flashback can make it worse. "Ezra, can you hear me?"

No response. His eyes are open but unseeing, trapped in a past that's more real to him right now than this room.

"Ezra. You're safe. You're in New Avalon. You're in Irene's room. The year is—"

His hand shoots out. Grabs my wrist. Hard.

Pain lances up my arm, but I don't pull away.

"It's me," I say, keeping my voice steady. "It's Irene. You're safe. No one is hurting you. The mission is over. You survived. You survived."

His grip tightens. For a terrifying moment, I think he might actually break my wrist — the pressure is immense, the strength of a man in full fight-or-flight response.

Then his eyes focus.

On me. On the room. On reality.

"Irene?" His voice is wrecked. Barely human.

"I'm here."

He looks down. Sees his hand around my wrist. The blood drains from his face.

"Oh God—" He releases me like I've burned him. "Oh God, I hurt you, I—"

"You didn't." I hold up my wrist. It's red, already bruising, but not broken. "See? I'm fine."

"I could have killed you." He's shaking now — full-body tremors that rattle the chair. "I didn't know where I was, I thought you were — I thought—"

"Ezra." I kneel in front of him. Force him to meet my eyes. "I'm fine. You're fine. We're both okay."

"You shouldn't be near me. I'm dangerous. I told you, I warned you—"

"You warned me you flinch at touch. You didn't warn me you have nightmares. That's different."

"It's not different, it's worse. I could have—" His voice breaks. "I could have hurt you without even knowing. I would have, if you hadn't—"

"But I did. And you stopped. That's what matters."

He stares at me. The desperation in his eyes is unbearable — a man confronting the worst version of himself and finding no excuse.

"Why aren't you afraid?" he whispers.

"Because I understand what just happened. You weren't here — you were in Mosul, with your unit, trying to survive. Your nervous system responded to a perceived threat the way it was trained to respond. That's not you being dangerous. That's trauma hijacking your body."

"It feels like me."

"I know. But it's not." I reach out slowly — giving him time to pull away — and rest my hand on his knee. He flinches, but doesn't retreat. "You came back, Ezra. The moment you recognized me, you stopped. That's control. That's you."

His breathing is still ragged. His hands are still shaking. But something in his expression shifts — a c***k in the self-hatred, letting in a sliver of something else.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't be."

"I need to be. I need to—" He takes a shuddering breath. "I need to be better. For you. For everyone. I can't keep being this... this broken thing that hurts people without meaning to."

"You're not a thing. You're a man." I squeeze his knee gently. "A man who survived something unsurvivable and is still trying to function despite the scars. That's not broken. That's brave."

He looks at my hand on his knee. His own hand moves — slowly, carefully, like he's afraid of himself — and covers mine.

The touch is tentative. Trembling.

But it's there.

"I don't deserve you," he says.

"You don't get to decide that."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true. Every time."

Silence.

Then, impossibly, the corner of his mouth twitches.

"You're stubborn," he says.

"It's been mentioned."

"Annoying."

"Also mentioned."

"And..." He pauses. His eyes search mine. "And the best thing that's happened to me in a very long time."

The words land in my chest like a warm weight.

"Ezra—"

"I know." He squeezes my hand once, then releases it. Pulls back. The walls are going up again — he can only be vulnerable for so long before his defenses reassert themselves. "I know. The pact. The situation. The thousand reasons this is impossible."

"Those reasons don't seem to matter as much as they did two days ago."

"No." His eyes hold mine. "They don't."

We stay like that — him in the chair, me on my knees before him — until the sky outside begins to lighten.

Neither of us sleeps again.

But we're not alone.

And maybe, right now, that's enough.

End of Chapter Fourteen