There was nothing more poisonous than a desert summer.
The sun pierced the slats of the outpost, smothering the room in thick heat. Sand swirled in suspended spirals, caught in fractured incandescent light. The Royal Police officer squinted, wiping his sweaty forehead with his scarred hand. His blue eyes swiveled to the bounty hunter. Jack’s frown deepened under scrutiny. His slitted brow ticked up as the policeman circled something in a document.
He shoved the paper in his face. “Do you see this, Jackson?”
A beat. “And?”
“The bounty clearly asks for a pair of brothers. I don’t see two people. Do you?”
“Nope.”
“And why is that?”
“Because, Prescott,” he drawled, gold eyes dropping to his prisoner, “the other one blew himself up.”
The door slammed open. Amber grains swept in, dancing across the floor. Prescott cursed and crossed the room. He kicked the prisoner’s splayed feet with his thick-soled boots to clear his path. He pulled the door and locked the latch. Wind rattled the walls, sodium-yellow lamps swaying and crumbs spilling from the ceiling. Prescott inhaled, coughing once, and crouched to meet the prisoner’s cloudy gray eyes.
A crude handkerchief kept his slack jaw on its joints. Bruises mottled his scarred flesh, most notably around his hairline and lids—a telltale sign of a poison used by bounty hunters. A tiny pool of blood filled between the cracked floorboards. Prescott tracked it to the festering bandage on his thigh, inflamed and tender, the kind of injury that whispered of sepsis. Jack had a similar wrap around his calf, though his was cleaner.
Prescott frowned, deep wrinkles showing his age. “The bounty also specified bringing him in one piece.”
“I did,” Jack said, crossing his arms.
“Barely.” Prescott snipped.
“Well, he sure as hell ain’t dead.”
Prescott scoffed and pushed to his feet. Sand crackled underneath his boots as he walked around his desk. A single stack of papers, ragged and yellowing, sat in its left corner, weighted down by his gun. He let the air settle between them, like the starch on a fresh shirt. He opened a sleek device — foreign tech from the Eastern colonies — and began typing.
His lips pursed. “I can give you a third.”
“A third?”
The pad clacked on the table. “That’s what I said.”
“I dragged my ass halfway across the desert, to some bumfuck settlement, and you’re givin’ me a third?”
Another sigh of a man overworked, “Bellmore…”
Jack leaned in, voice gravelly. “Don’t ‘Bellmore’ me, Prescott.” His breath fanned the man’s freckled face, fire simmering behind gritted teeth. “I want my money. I don’t take kindly to a bunch of stiff-collared pricks ripping me off while I’m bustin’ my ass in the wasteland.”
Prescott didn’t flinch. He pointedly reached into his chest flap for his handkerchief and dabbed his face, deadpanning. “Again, we required two brothers in one piece.” He cocked a brow. “Does it look like you brought two brothers in one piece?”
Jack leveled the police officer with a glare that could spark a flame. Royal Police, Jack thought bitterly. That’s what folks called them out here. At least, the nicer word. Not because they served a crown, but because they acted like they owned the damn continent.
Didn’t matter how fine their boots or how smooth their talk. Eastern shine didn’t fool the dust out here.
He shifted his attention to his prisoner. Rattled breaths struggled from his bluing lips. Color rapidly leeched from his face, a scarlet stripe tracing a path to his broken jaw. It would be five minutes before he passes out. It would be ten minutes until two brothers became no brothers.
A curse died behind Jack’s teeth as an ache singed his lungs. Always in the same place—flaring and fading. He didn’t wince. Didn’t acknowledge it.
Get through this job.
Then another. Then another. And then what?
He relented. “Just give me the cash.”
Prescott handed over the wad of bills. “Pleasure doing business.”
Jack stuffed the paltry sum in his pocket. He ripped open the door, and he took one uneasy step forward. Anger and frustration blurred into exhaustion, his muscles melting around aching bones. Air hissed between his lips, his body deflating and losing its form. As his consciousness slipped between his fingers, his mind locked onto salvation—to the one place that felt like home—and he pushed forward like a dead man walking.
***
Home.
Home was not his apartment, tucked in the shadow on the edge of town. Nor was it some bar or restaurant. No—home was here, in the storage room behind Dr. Aberdeen’s office, shrouded in secret and surrounded by tools he didn’t recognize. Home was the thick humidity coating his mouth and turning his tongue to cotton. His head lolled to the side, a lazy smile playing on his lips as the saline drip pushed medicine through his veins.
His doctor frowned, gloved hands fiddling with the IV bag and checking the dosage. Jack met her concerned stare and understood.
Home.
Home was those eyes, the lustrous color of tempered steel, flecks of gold and purple and red in the deep gray irises. Framed by thick lashes and a knowing brow, they prodded, asking but not forcing the secrets from his loose lips. Her fingers wove sutures through his wound, blood staining her sky-blue gloves. Like a jeweler, she examined the rubies with a shrewdness he knew reserved only for him. Only she knew how to unravel him. Shred his skin until he was muscle and bone and pain.
All the power of a god and all the benevolence of a lover.
Jack swallowed bile.
“You’re not concussed, and the leg wound isn’t infected,” she began, pinching his chin and reassessing his head, “but you’re dehydrated and anemic. I’ve pushed some IV fluids and a mild iron supplement for now. I recommend a warm meal and rest.”
His head bobbed. Slow fingers wrapped around her wrist. “Constance, I—” he began, gaze wandering to her fidgeting left hand. Her thumb stroked her ring finger like a reflex. The missing gem. It was hidden somewhere—a literal diamond in the rough. If he ransacked her drawers, he would find it. His jaw clenched. “Never mind. Thanks.”
Her brow tightened. She ripped her wrist away and said with clinical sharpness, “Listen, Jack, you’re getting worse. Your wound healing is compromised, and your skin is peppered with bruises. Your disease—it’s spreading, and you don’t have much time.”
Her look grew fierce, as if daring him to say something. When he offered no reply, her hand grazed his cheek.
“You even look a little jaundiced.”
He longed to surrender to the warmth of her touch, but a thin barrier of rubber kept them apart, reminding him of the walls he’d built long ago. Exhaustion rammed against his mind, rammed against those barriers, begging him to give in.
Give up.
How easy it would be.
But his heart was steel. Harder and stronger than body and mind. And the heart remembered, his bitterness leaking into his hoarse reply.
“Nice to know I look like shit.”
“Well, you’re mistreating yourself, so you’re going to feel bad. You should take a break.”
“Gee, that would be nice, but despite my obviously lucrative job, I’m broke as fuck.”
Constance scowled. “Maybe because you’re having trouble completing bounties.” Her brows furrowed. “Are you having confusion? Blackouts?”
“Just shitty luck,” he said, rubbing his temples, “and a killer headache.”
“A side effect of the medicine I’ve given you,” she said, getting up and grabbing an ice pack out of the mini fridge. “I can’t risk painkillers because of your condition…”
“My condition,” he repeated, almost mocking with his affected tone — but took the ice pack anyway. It chilled his burning neck and eased his headache.
“The other treatment for your disease is a lot worse, trust me,” she said, grabbing an orange pill bottle, thumbing the faded label as she frowned at it. “I could give them to you for next time. For an emergency.”
“Doubt it could get much worse,” he muttered. Their fingers brushed as he grabbed the bottle. He stored it in his inner jacket pocket with a scowl.
She slid into her chair, a storm swirling in her gaze, worrying her lip between her teeth. Her fingers folded tightly on her lap.
“You need to tell Abe, Jack. Or you will regret it.”
Like a boat rocking to shore, the thought soured Jack’s stomach. Pity tasted worse than vomit.
“I don’t recall ever giving you any authority over my life.”
“Affairs are not just about money. It means completing unfinished tasks, including funeral preparations.”
“Ah, because my brother will have money for something like that when we barely have two coins to rub together,” he growled.
A cruel sneer curled his chapped lips, blood blooming from the creases.
“Not everyone can lift their skirt and marry rich.”
“Dammit, Jack!” Constance yelled, startling him. Her face flushed a vicious scarlet. She never cursed.
“Stop being a pill and grow up. If not, you’ll die before—” She choked on her last words, turning away and sniffing hard.
Guilt twanged a heartstring. A memory echoed in Jack’s mind: his biting words and their lasting sting. Hot tears melting the last gossamer threads of their relationship.
He mumbled, “Sorry.”
She tidied the medical supplies with jerky, frantic hands. The harsh clatter of metal sliced through the silence, driving a bitter wedge between them, honing it into something lethal.
Soft sunlight poked through the cracked door, bathing the room in a warm glow, setting Constance’s hair aflame. It was cut much shorter than when they were together, the edges severe along her jaw. It suited her. Then again, most things did.
An oppressive darkness loomed between them, a bloated mass of words said and unsaid. The lethal weapon of silence, thick with unbearable tension. A secret teetering on the edge of confession — and if he waited, it would topple.
The moment arrived with a sigh, frail as a paper’s soft rustle.
She stepped into the light, her mouth set in a grim line, steel in her eyes.
“I have a solution to your problem.”
“My dying problem? Or my dying-and-not-telling-my-brother problem?”
“Your not-having-a-cent-to-your-name problem.”
That caught his attention.
His eyes fixated on the bold letters. The flyer pleaded for the return of a woman. Even in the monochrome image, her stare burned like hot coals buried in ash. It contrasted with the light curls pinned atop her head and the delicate earrings dangling to her sharp shoulders.
She was high society — and vaguely familiar.
His gaze drifted to the bottom, narrowing when he read the name.
“Diamond Carmichael. What, you want me running errands for your boyfriend now?” He sneered. “Am I searching for your drunk future sister-in-law?”
“Half sister-in-law,” she corrected. “Diamond’s been troubled, but Jon was always there to keep her off the edge. Following tabloids, checking up — always ensuring that she never fell off the deep end.”
Jack snorted. From the tabloids and rumors, she was already off the deep end — and sinking fast.
“And how’s that going?”
Her fingers twitched into fists. “She stopped answering his calls and wasn’t there at her house.”
“Maybe she’s at an acting gig. Did you know she’s an actress?”
“Jack—”
“Actress is a bit of a stretch, but she’s been in a couple of films…”
“Jack—"
“Then again, I couldn’t see what you saw in that damn family.”
“Jack!” she shouted, knocking into her examination lamp.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders with a desperation that squeezed out the remaining sarcasm. Despite her height, she seemed delicate — almost ethereal.
His hands ached to reach her — to hold her like he once did — but they instead fisted his pants, rooted to the side.
“This is serious. I’ve never seen Jon so stressed out.”
She met his eyes, and his blood ran cold, the hairs behind his neck standing on end.
“He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t sleep.”
He snorted weakly around the lump in his throat.
“That makes two of us.”
She scowled. Her hands smoothed her white coat, slipping into her pockets. She forgot herself, he thought, “I’m worried. He’s my fiancé.”
“So you say.”
Their gaze fused, a spark passing between a moment, weaving a tapestry of shared smiles and unspoken memories. The air warmed, caressing his skin, a tingle traveling to his scalp. Constance drew a sharp breath, taking one hesitant step back. She avoided his eyes, severing that delicate connection.
“Considering her lifestyle, she’ll probably show up again. Just give her a chance.”
“We can’t take that chance.”
Her voice cracked on the last syllable, so reminiscent of another conversation they had—when he’d snuffed out their flame. He desperately wanted that warmth again. The embers of what he had stomped out two years ago.
He gave a long-suffering sigh, like blowing steam. He worked his jaw, once again threatening a bitter answer. Every interaction with her churned a malicious jealousy that aged him backwards. He wasn’t proud of it, but he didn’t fight it either. He’d hurt her, yes, but the Carmichael courtship started during the tail-end of their relationship. He could tinge his lost love with a little anger. It was petty, but some threadbare corner of his heart still wanted to see her stew.
If he was going to spend the last of his time chasing ghosts, it had to be for something more than guilt and obligation.
Taking a steadying breath, he fixed her with a look of hardened gold ore. “I’ll think about it.”
A frown nestled between her brows, and her gray eyes moistened. He’d hurt her, but admirably, she refused to wince, a humorless smile twitching her lips. She nodded, “I understand. You’re a busy guy.”
“I’m not that busy. It’s just,” His fingers grazed his pocket holding his medicine and, by implication, his diseased lungs. “I have other priorities. Things I gotta take care of before it all.”
“Before it all.” Constance repeated.
“You implied that I’m a man with a time limit. Whatever takes up my time.” He met those eyes, digging into that grim sheen of gray, searching for something.
And wondering if she was searching, too.
He emphasized softly, “Had better be worth it.”
Her lids fluttered closed. When they opened, she was no longer looking at him — fixated instead on the flyer in her hands.
“We plan on plastering it at Luther’s. I don’t know what the reward is, but I’m certain Jon will spare no expense,” she whispered. “When I do, I’ll let you know.”
Jack smiled through needles in his teeth.
“And I’ll wait for your call.”
