The thought should concern me. Should send me reaching for the emotional distance I’ve perfected over the years. Instead, it only makes me want to claim her more thoroughly.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to process what just happened between us in that bed.
Christ.
I’ve had my share of women over the years. Submissive women who understood the score, who understood the boundaries of what I could offer them. Clean, simple arrangements that satisfied physical needs without messy emotional entanglements. Professional relationships, in a sense. Everyone got what they needed, and nobody got hurt when it was time to walk away.
What we shared wasn’t that.
It was something else entirely. Something raw and desperate and real that reached into my chest and twisted things I thought I’d locked away after Somalia. After I learned the hard way that caring too much could get good people killed.
The way she looked at me when she came apart in my arms—like I was her anchor in a hurricane, like she was seeing me for the first time. The way she said my name when she shattered around my cock, breathless and desperate and completely, utterly mine. The way she let me see her—really see her for the first time—beneath all those carefully constructed walls.
And the way she ran afterward, like being vulnerable with me was more terrifying than facing down armed thugs in a Denver park.
Yeah. What we shared was definitely not a simple hookup.
My phone buzzes again—another motion alert. She’s still on the deck, probably freezing her ass off in the Colorado mountain air. Stubborn woman. The temperature dropped another ten degrees after the sun went down, and it was already cold enough to see your breath. Hell, they got snow above ten thousand feet last night. And I wouldn’t be surprised if we got some soon.
I reach for my phone, checking the security feeds out of habit. The thermal imaging shows her exactly where I expected—curled up in the deck chair, knees drawn to her chest, looking up at the star-scattered sky.
The infrared picks up the heat signature of the locket against her skin, that mysterious piece of jewelry she never takes off. The one she touches when she’s nervous or thinking too hard.
My phone shows no new updates from Hawkeye. No intel on the coffee shop incident. No leads on who might want to hurt her or why someone would tear her apartment apart looking for something specific.
Guessing she’d appreciate something hot to drink, if not the interruption, I head for the kitchen.
I set the coffee maker for myself, then take out a box of the premade chai we bought in town.
After reading the directions, I grab a pan and a carton of oat milk. Then I measure out the proper ratio and I turn on the burner.
Being domestic isn’t exactly part of my skill set. But I remember the look on her face this morning when she had her first sip of chai. And I want to see that expression again.
Jesus, Stryker. You’re losing your mind over a woman who won’t even tell you her real name.
The fuck is wrong with me?
But as I stir the mixture on the stove, I can’t bring myself to care. Whatever game she’s playing, whatever secrets she’s hiding, whatever danger she’s running from—it doesn’t change the fact that she fits in my arms like she was made for me. Doesn’t change the way she responded to my touch, my voice, my control. Doesn’t change the fact that she’s the first person in years to make me feel like something more than just a weapon pointed at the enemy.
While the chai warms, I grab the fleece throw from the back of the couch. It’s soft and thick, perfect for a stubborn woman who’s too proud to come inside when she’s cold. There’s something deeply satisfying about the idea of wrapping her up, taking care of her, keeping her warm and safe.
Protective instincts, I tell myself. It’s just the job.
But even as I think it, I know it’s bullshit. This stopped being just a job the moment I kissed her in my condo. Maybe even before that, if I’m being honest. Maybe it was never a job to begin with.
Moments later, the whole cabin begins to smell like something warm and exotic, like the spice markets in Marrakech where I once spent three weeks tracking an arms dealer.
I pour her latte into a mug, fill up mine, and toss the blanket over my shoulder.
Time to find out what’s got her running from the warmth of my bed to the chill of a Colorado night. Time to start chipping away at those walls she’s built so carefully around herself.
Time to figure out who Allie Johnson really is, and why someone wants her badly enough to tear her life apart looking for whatever secrets she’s hiding.
I slide the door open and step onto the deck, the cold air hitting me like a slap. She doesn’t look back, but her shoulders tense slightly. She knows I’m there. Of course she does. She’s too well-trained to miss something like that.
“Thought you might be cold.”
She turns slowly, and even in the dim light from the cabin, I can see the wariness in her eyes. But when she notices the mug I’m holding, I see a flicker of surprise, maybe even gratitude, before she locks it down behind her usual mask.
