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Dutch is fine.
He has to be.
Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. “Dutch?”
“Get down!” Dutch rolls, dragging me into his arms on the subfloor. “Solly! You can’t—”
“Shut up.” I seal his lips with a desperate kiss. His answering mmf hits me in the ovaries. When he happily parts his lips, I shift, wanting to shake some sense into him.
But my fingers brush something hot.
Something wet.
I yank from his mouth, gasping. Blood slicks my fingers and drips down his cheek.
The bullet grazed his ear.
Trembling, I reach for the gash. “What were you thinking?”
What the shit was I thinking?
Hiding out and setting lame-ass traps.
I am the fucking trap.
“I have to protect you.” Dutch tugs my hand. “My mate.”
“No.” Maybe I’m not meant to be his.
Theirs.
Anyone’s.
Who gives a shit?
Dutch is mine.
“No?” His voice spikes. “But—”
I cover his mouth. “I’ll protect you.”
“Solly.” He licks my fingers, lapping his own blood.
“You follow me, and you do what I say. Got it?” I hold my scent but drop my shields, letting him taste the authority that gives a fat middle finger to every alpha who thinks they’re still standing on top of the power pyramid.
Dutch doesn’t shrink.
He traces the freckles behind my ear. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“Good.” I snatch his walkie and click to talk. “Bish? Jin?”
Static answers.
I stroke Dutch’s hair. “We need to re-group.”
I can handle the Triad.
I can even handle the SAS.
