Page 82 of Missile Strike

The light in her eyes dimmed. “I can see that.”

His grip tightened on the steering wheel.

Yeah. She probably could.

Bella needed control. Stability. He couldn’t blame her—not with her past.

His childhood had revolved around Jaynie’s illness.

Bella had been one of the few bright spots in a house drowning in grief.

She’d stayed. Been there when Jaynie died.

The moment he’d been free to leave, he’d taken it.

Kept taking it.

New deployments. New assignments. New cities.

Never staying long enough for anyone to depend on him.

Which was exactly why he wasn’t good for Bella.

Even if the thought of her with another man hollowed him out and left acid burning in his veins.

Back at Bella’s house, he retreated to the guest bathroom, scrubbing gun oil from his hands.

The mirror showed him for what he was.

A liar.

He told himself he could keep Bella in the client zone, but there was nothing professional about the way he wanted her.

The night of Jaynie’s funeral rose without warning.

Bella’s hands in his hair. The tide lapping at their feet. Her soft cries as he buried himself inside her—trying to escape the guilt tearing through him.

Relief that his sister’s suffering was over.

That he was free.

He reburied the memory and stared at his hands, raw from scrubbing too hard.

Shutting off the water, he dried them with the hand towel, then pressed it to his face.

Get it together.

Bella’s life was in danger. His job was to keep her safe. From everything and everyone.

Even him.

He lowered the towel and met his own gaze in the mirror, seeing the truth he couldn’t admit out loud.

If she ever looked at him again like she had at the range, he’d take what she offered.

And to hell with the consequences.

Two hours later, Bella’s doorbell rang.