Demon Fire (The Angel Fire Book 3), Marie Johnston [books suggested by bill gates TXT] 📗

That ruled out conversation. A little dry military history, then. It couldn’t be any more boring than she’d found her own realm’s military history to be.

She crossed to the island and sank to the floor. She read the titles. Staring at the log walls might be better. Choosing one book, she flipped through it. Too many names of generals and wars from the early twentieth century. Not a chance.

She selected another. As she paged through it, an envelope fell out. Without thinking too hard, she put the book down and withdrew the papers. Not papers. Pictures.

A beautiful family looked back at her. A man with a strong jaw covered by a short, trimmed beard had a wide smile, his arm slung around a beautiful brunette. Between them was a little boy, about six or seven.

She blinked. Blinked again.

Her breath stalled. The man was Boone. His hair was cut short, trimmed on the sides, longer on top, and he wore a regular navy blue polo. The little boy looked just like him.

She put her fingers to her lips. Tears burned the backs of her eyes. When Boone had mentioned his wife, she’d assumed the woman was either gone or dead. She’d assumed he must’ve loved her very much and the pain had driven him into the wilderness.

But a noble man like Boone wouldn’t leave a kid. So that meant—

The door swung open. Boone’s gaze landed on her and darkened. “What are you doing?”

There was no use hiding what she found. She held up the photo.

The same stone jaw in the photo worked side to side, but he said nothing.

“I was bored and thought I’d try to find something to read,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.” She was sorry for so much more than unearthing his hidden pain.

“Put it back.” His words could cut diamonds.

She did as he asked. He remained as still as the cold mountains outside. She clasped her hands, not knowing what to say, how to make this moment better.

He didn’t move. “That was my wife. And son.”

“They’re gone.”

One nod. “Dead.”

“What happened?” Would he tell her?

He crossed to the stool that was the farthest away from her and dropped on it. He hadn’t removed his coat or boots. “I was an undercover agent.” His hand flicked toward the book she’d stuck the picture inside of. “That was taken three years before I went under with a biker gang. I was gone a lot. We lived in a small town near Chicago, but when I got the assignment, I took on another name, got an apartment in the city, and didn’t get home very often.”

“She was upset.”

Another single dip of his head. “I used to ride before we met and had complained a few times that I wasn’t able to do it as much after Adam was born. I think she thought I was having the time of my life, riding free and sleeping around. I was pretending to be an office stiff by day and part of a biker gang at night, working to gather evidence of a drug ring.”

“It must’ve been dangerous.”

He shrugged. “It was soul-sucking more than dangerous. I was good at my job, confident I’d get the information I needed, but an operation we thought would take a few months lasted over a year. Phoebe had always been . . . unsure of herself. Insecure.” He drifted off and stared at the wood plank floor. “The irony was that while I was out trying to fight the war on drugs, she was taking them at home. She was storing them above the same sink our son brushed his teeth at.”

Sierra had lost her world. Boone had lost so much more.

“Every time I came home, I noticed she was worse than before. Nothing obvious at first. Her behavior was insidious, a little more erratic with each visit. The house a little messier than before. She’d have more emotional outbursts. Adam would beg me not to leave.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. His guilt tore at her heart.

“Adam told me about the pills. I confronted her, we argued, she cried and promised to get help. I thought that was the end of it. I dropped Adam off with Phoebe’s parents and went to work. Turned out Phoebe was so upset with me, so desperate for her fix or for revenge or for . . . I don’t know. She sold me out.”

“Oh, Boone.”

His gaze was rooted in the past. He blinked and then unbuttoned his flannel. Underneath was a white shirt much like the one he’d shredded for her to use. She hadn’t seen him without the flannel. Ropes of muscle lined arms decorated with black tattoos. She hadn’t had a clue that he had tattoos, pieces that would take her several minutes to trace if he’d quit moving. His biceps bulged as he tugged the white shirt over his head.

She didn’t know what he was doing, but his moves weren’t sexual.

A long scar ran down the left side of his abdomen. He outlined it with his finger. “I was shot with my own gun. Then they killed Phoebe with it. While I was operated on for ten hours and nearly bled out, they hunted down my son to send a message. I left as soon as the trial was over.”

A living nightmare. No wonder he was so restless when he slept. How long had he suffered before finding peace? “Human trials take years.”

He shot her a questioning look. “As opposed to what other trials?”

Mine.

It took a moment before she realized what she’d said wrong. She couldn’t afford a slip like that. Around Boone was okay. He might think it was odd, but in public, the wrong being could hear her. “It must’ve been awful.”

He dipped his head. “It was hell. I bought this cabin after Phoebe and I got married. I’d come hunt some years, and I kept it so I could take my son one day.” He trailed off and stared at his hands.

“Are you from