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He charged, a desperate final attempt. But Rachel was already moving, side-stepping with the grace of a desert fox. She kicked out, her boot meeting his knee with a sickening crunch.
"Argh!" His cry cut through the tumult, a surrender to the inevitable.
Rachel didn’t hesitate. With a practiced maneuver, she spun him, forcing his arm behind his back until he dropped to his knees, subdued.
"Stay down if you know what's good for you." Her breathing was hard but steady. The rain plastered her hair to her forehead, washed away the grime and the doubt.
"Gotcha..." she murmured, almost to herself, as she secured his wrists with cuffs. The storm raged on, but for Rachel Blackwood, the tempest within had quieted.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The breakroom's fluorescent lights flickered, casting a sterile glow on the linoleum floor. Rachel sat alone at a chipped Formica table, her fingers tracing the rim of a cold coffee mug. Her mind replayed the events in a relentless loop, each detail etched with the clarity only hindsight could afford.
Her reflection stared back at her from the vending machine's glass—a distorted version of the Texas Ranger she knew herself to be. Bruises marred her olive skin, blooming in angry purples and yellows across her cheekbone and jaw, painting a stark contrast to her normally unblemished complexion. The physical evidence of her tangle with death. She touched the tender swelling beneath her eye tentatively, wincing.
"Dammit," she hissed, pulling her hand back.
Her dark hair, usually braided back with precision, now fell in loose strands around her shoulders, some sticking to the dried sweat on her neck. The fight had been close, too close. Instinct and training had carried her through, but as she caught her breath in the quiet of the precinct, doubts whispered through the adrenaline’s afterglow.
"Could've been killed," she thought, the words heavy with self-reproach. She rubbed her bruised knuckles, feeling the echo of impact resonate through her bones.
She never usually thought like this.
Jane had survived.
She'd succeeded. Where was this sudden concern for her own safety now coming from?
Ethan...
She knew the answer. But she didn't want to face it.
She closed her eyes momentarily.
"Survived this time," she murmured, the reality settling like dust in the air. She needed no reminder of the stakes; they were written in every ache that pulsed through her body.
Opening her eyes, Rachel straightened up, drawing on her well of resilience. She was a product of survival, honed by loss and the harsh Texas landscape.
"Next time won't be so lucky," she spoke to her reflection, the resolve hardening in her gaze.
She was distracted suddenly as the door to the break room swung open with a force that startled her from reverie. Ethan Morgan. His presence filled the doorway, his silhouette edged with the ire that always seemed to simmer just beneath his surface.
"Rachel." His voice was a low growl, laced with a cocktail of relief and admonishment. "What were you thinking?"
She straightened, her muscles tensing reflexively. Blue eyes met hers, a tempest raging within them—a storm of worry and fury. She read the concern in the tight lines around his mouth, the barely concealed anger in his clenched jaw.
"Got the job done, didn't I?" Her words were a shield, deflecting the concern she wasn't ready to accept.
"I told you to be careful!" He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. "You could've been killed."
"Occupational hazard." She kept her voice even, betraying none of the fear that had clawed at her insides during the confrontation with the killer.
"Dammit, Rachel." He raked a hand through his hair, the gesture raw with frustration. "We're partners."
She nodded, watching him.
This was the problem. This concern... this care... She'd grown up without it. Hell, had she ever had it?
She felt a cold emptiness that threatened to swallow her, but she pushed it aside with a scowl.
