1
Dakota “Bear” Locklear worked at slowing his breathing. Sweat soaked his shirt, his chest still heaving from the hard run through the jungle with an unconscious CIA operator cradled against him. He pressed deeper into the thick brush. Flint crouched at his side, the K9’s ears pricked, nostrils flaring, body taut with alertness.
He found a pocket of cover beneath a tangle of roots and vines, eased their CIA liaison Bailee Thunderhawk down with him, and sank to one knee, shielding her with his body.
Her dark hair had slipped loose, spilling like ink over his arm, strands catching against the rough weave of his shirt. High cheekbones, lashes thick and black against skin burnished from the sun, Bailee had always looked untouchable, sharp-edged, and composed. Even now, unconscious, she carried that fierce grace, as if she’d simply chosen to rest rather than surrender to it.
Bear closed his eyes and pressed his palm to the ground, drawing in the scent of loam and green, letting the jungle itself fill his lungs until his heartbeat steadied. Normally, the earth steadied him without effort. Tonight, that grounding slipped, thrown off by the fragile weight of Bailee in his arms. It wasn’t the weight of her body that rattled him. It was everything she carried now. Everything Rio had carved into her.
She hadn’t been the same since that mission. Guarded now, her body, her eyes, her heart, were all shuttered against him. It hurt in ways he didn’t have the words for.
Yet sometimes he caught it, the slip. The way her gaze flicked to his torso, the quick shadow crossing eyes that usually burned like steel, the unsettled way she looked at him. As if she were still back there, remembering the gun battle, the blood she tried to stem with her hands, the moment he’d nearly bled out in her arms.
Even here, with enemies closing in, cover barely holding, men hunting them through the jungle, she occupied far too much of his mind.
“LT,” he whispered into the radio, the high-grade mic able to catch even the breath of his words. “Everything went to shit. We ran into a patrol. Firefight. Bailee’s down. Head wound. She’s breathing, but unconscious.”
“Are you secure?” Lieutenant Elias “Joker” Jackman’s voice came back at once.
Bear swept the undergrowth with a practiced glance. Cover, but not enough. “Negative. Pursuit is active. Position’s iffy.”
The static wavered, then Joker ordered, “Stay put. We’re coming to you.”
Mateo “Zorro” Martinez’s voice cut in, steadier, the medic in him already calculating. “Bear, check her pupils.”
Every instinct screamed against it. He didn’t want to set her down. Didn’t want to take his eyes off her for a second. But Zorro needed the information. Bear eased her in his arms, her head lolling as he shifted her weight. Her black hair caressed his skin, making him shiver.
He lifted her lids one by one. Silver-blue eyes stared back, her pupils steady. Normal. Relief burned through him. “Equal and reactive.”
“Good. Most likely a concussion,” Zorro murmured, the quiet note of reassurance grounding him, affection and concern threading through his voice. “You hang on. We’ve got you, brother.”
Bear drew a long breath, the first one that felt like air in his lungs since the firefight. He should’ve stopped there. Should’ve gone still and waited. But his hand betrayed him, brushing over the high line of her cheekbone, savoring the heat of her skin. It felt forbidden, risky, like something he’d been hungry for longer than he could remember.
For a heartbeat, nothing else existed, just the jungle’s hum, Flint’s steady watch, the faint rise and fall of Bailee’s chest. He held on to that rhythm, praying she would open her eyes.
Her lashes fluttered. A low sound escaped her throat.
“Bailee?” His voice stayed low, steady. “Easy now. You’re safe.”
Her gaze swam at first, then sharpened with sudden, fierce clarity. “Safe? With you? Unlikely.” Her hand pressed weakly at his chest, the effort more instinct than strength.
The faint pressure sent a rush through him, ridiculous given the firefight still ringing in his ears. Even half-conscious, she found a way to put distance between them, to remind him that Rio had complicated everything. She had never said anything aloud about what had been building between them, but it had been there, clear as daylight. He had saved her life twice, and she had shown up at the hospital for him, shaken and fierce, her guard cracked in ways she probably wished he hadn’t seen. Maybe he had read too much into all of it.
Fuck, was he a burden in her world, something that pressed down on her conscience, some kind of misplaced guilt he didn’t want to carry? She braided my hair like a warrior deserved. Like a fool, I let her. Neither of them could take that back. Both of them seemed to be trying.
Her touch lingered, fingers curled against his shirt as though she couldn’t finish the push.
“Safe,” he repeated, voice low and firm, his mouth close to her temple.
Her lashes dipped, her hand faltering, but the retort never came. For a breath, she simply leaned into him, her warmth seeping through, her scent tangling with sweat and jungle. His chest ached with the need to hold her tighter, to press her face against his shoulder and keep her there, safe, until the world went quiet.
Her breath caught, a faint tremor against his throat. For a heartbeat he thought her guard had cracked, thought maybe she leaned into him because she wanted more than his strength. But the weight of her body told another truth. She wasn’t seeking comfort. She was hurt, disoriented, too weak to fight him off.
Bear swallowed hard, the memory of her hands in his hair tangling with the reality in his arms. He wanted it to mean something—that she trusted him, that she needed him, but he knew better. After knowing her in the field for so long, he’d seen it firsthand. Bailee kept a tight leash on her control. She wouldn’t admit weakness if it bit her in the ass.
“You have no idea how dangerous you are. Let me go,” she whispered, but the words faltered, her fingers still curled weakly in his shirt. She couldn’t fight him. Not really.
What the hell was that supposed to mean? She was confused, and irrational. He would never hurt her, not with his hands, not with his silence, not with the blood he’d already spilled to keep her safe. The thought that she saw him that way, that he threatened her in some place deeper than the battlefield, cut sharper than any blade. He’d die before he became someone who cost her too much. Not that they had anything going, she’d made that clear, but the thought of her spending even one moment regretting having him on her team hit like a hard punch to the nads. His stomach turned, a raw, sick twist that burned worse than the firefight, because it was her.
