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“No,” he groans. Sweat streams down his face. His bare, muscled chest heaves. “Please.”
Keena stands beside him. She whimpers, pawing at the side of the bed. A rumpled blanket lies on the floor.
I tiptoe into the room, aching for him. I know all about his nightmares. The suicide mission that killed Davis’s team. The bullet he took that got him sent home.
One step, and then a second, and I’m by his bed.
Sitting beside him, I sweep a hand over his broad shoulder. Gently, I shake him. “Davis. Davis, wake up.”
Silence. Keena stares daggers as she whirls herself into a frenzy near the open door.
And then Davis jerks so violently, I gasp.
He launches himself out of bed, stumbles, but I catch up with him, grabbing his shoulders. “Hey, Hotshot, hey.”
Davis stands there, dazed, wounded. My heart tugs.
“It’s okay.” I should go. Instead, I wrap my arms around his trim waist. And it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. “It’s okay,” I say, looking up at him.
“Dakota,” he pants, leaning his forehead against mine. His big body heaves as he comes down from the nightmare. Our breath heats the space between us. His bare chest brushes my breasts and my stomach does a slow curl of warmth.
It’s nice being held. Feeling safe.
It’s been such a long time.
Then his massive, muscled body clenches. Davis pulls back, his handsome face twisted in horror. He looks down.
My wrist is locked tight in his grip.
I never even felt it.
He drops it like I’m on fire.
“You were having a nightmare.” Worry clouds my voice. I hate that he still has them.
A ragged breath leaves him. “Christ, Dakota.” His brown gold-flecked gaze burns. “I told youneverto wake me up. I could have hurt you.”
Both hands go to his hair as he takes a step backward. Away from me. It stings.
I stare him down. “You would never scare me, Davis. Loud noises, sure. Killer clowns, maybe.” Stepping forward, I rest a hand on his tense chest. His heart rapid-fires. “But not you.”
“Dakota.” He palms my shoulders, and I wait for him to push me away.
“I’m not afraid of you, Davis.” I tilt my chin up. “There is one man I fear in my life, and it’s not you.”
I know what he did overseas. I know who he killed. I know who he lost. And I am not afraid of him.
He swallows, guilt clouding his face.
I reach for him, but Keena intercepts, weaving her way through his legs, until Davis untangles from me to run a big hand over her fur.
“She hates me,” I say as the dog keeps her I-will-kill-you eyes on my face.
“She’s protective,” Davis says, avoiding my gaze. But he snaps his fingers and points at the door. Keena, ears back, slinks into the hall.
I sit on the edge of his bed to take in his room. Davis is still as organized and as neat as he’s always been. Nothing out of place. Stacks of records next to a Crosley. Tomorrow’s clothes laid out on a bench. A police scanner, a Glock, and a CB radio crowd his nightstand. A small bar with whiskey and scotch against the wall. Three pairs of leather-worn boots all lined up in a row next to the door.
A small smile tips my lips, and I gesture at the boots. “You ready to run, Hotshot?”
