Marlowe
Reid stood frozen, staring at the captured rider with an expression I'd never seen on him before — not his usual careful composure, not even the raw fear I'd glimpsed during the battle, but something closer to devastated recognition.
"You know him," King said, watching Reid's reaction with the same careful focus he'd have given any tactical variable.
"My cousin." Reid's voice came out hoarse, barely audible. "Danny. Haven't seen him in — God, years. Last I heard he'd gotten mixed up with some rough crowd, but I never thought—" He stopped, swallowing hard, unable to finish the sentence.
Bear hauled the wounded rider — Danny — into the makeshift holding area near the medical tent, and King turned to Reid with an expression that had gone carefully, deliberately neutral.
"I need y
