Clinton waited on the edge of the sand. Crisp suit, hands folded neatly in front of him, posture perfect as ever. A silhouette that never strayed far.
“I’ll give you and your shadow some privacy,” Stone muttered, throwing a look toward Clinton before disappearing up the steps toward the estate.
Dave didn’t slow. He closed the last few feet between him and Clinton.
“You ever screen his calls again,” Dave said, voice flat, edged in steel, “and you’re done.”
Clinton’s brow arched, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through the mask. “Sir, my job is to—”
“Your job,” Dave cut in, stepping close enough that his words landed hard, “is to keep the noise out. Not him. Stone does not go through you. Ever. Am I clear?”
The mask slipped back into place, but Dave caught the flicker in Clinton’s eyes. Reassessing. Adjusting.
“Crystal,” Clinton said smoothly.
Dave let the silence hang one beat longer, then brushed past him, heading back toward the estate.
The weight of Stone’s bear hug—and the brush of lips—still burned in his chest.
He told himself the walls were still there—the distance, the threats, the endless weight of the mission.
They might always be.
But in Stone’s arms, for that brief moment, none of it pressed quite as heavily.
Stone had held him like he was the only thing that mattered, and kissed him like a promise.
And against all his better instincts, Dave finally let himself believe.
The study smelled of salty air and paper—Sparrow’s drop spread wide across the desk, documents stacked in precise towers beside Dave’s elbow.
Sure, it was old school, but sometimes paper trumped electronics. Maps littered the surface, red-ink lines cutting up the California coastline, dots and arrows that all led north and south.
Dave rubbed a hand over his jaw, scanning the neat columns of shipping manifests Sparrow had annotated.
“Titus’s network is bigger than I expected. He’s not just stockpiling. He’s building a supply chain,” he said.
Stone leaned over the desk, forearms braced against the wood. His storm-colored eyes tracked the cities on the maps like a predator pinning prey. “Port Hueneme, Ventura, Oxnard. He’s setting up fallback lines.”
“Or choke points,” Dave agreed. “Either way, he’s in striking distance. And just so you know, I’ve mobilized Pegasus. They will have boots on the ground to help with this.”
“Sounds good,” Stone acknowledged.
For a beat, neither moved.
The papers lay between them, but the air burned hotter than anything the maps could hold.
Dave tried to look away, to break the tension crackling in the space—but Stone’s hand closed around the back of his neck, pulling him forward before he could move.
Dave went breathless. Sweet hell, was Stone going to kiss him again?
Before the thought even finished, Stone’s mouth crushed down on his lips—hard, stolen, pressing together with heat and hunger that burned through every wall Dave thought he still had.
This kiss was nothing like the light one on the beach. This was hard, possessive, and raw. It lasted several heartbeats, but it left him aching, hard, unsteady.
Stone pulled back just enough, eyes burning into his. His voice was low, rough. “Tell me you want this.”
Dave’s pulse thundered, lips tingling, but before he could form the words, the study door opened without a knock.
