Bear grunted, elongating that magnificent body. His dark skin showed at his waist, then…a raised, white circle came into view low on his abdomen, above the waistband of his jeans.
Her breath caught. The past put a hand on her throat. The world narrowed to that mark. Everything else vanished.
Rio tore through her in jagged flashes, the hotel hallway, men cut down by Bear’s fury, Flint a shadow with teeth at his side, Bear throwing himself over Zorro’s nieces without hesitation, taking fire with no thought for his own life. Man and dog, shield and fang, a wall of devotion and sacrifice.
Those nightmares never stopped. She swore she could still feel the hot rush of his blood against her palms, slick and terrifying. His eyes dimmed, and she re-lived that unbearable second when she thought she’d lost him. The despair that followed had gutted her more than any bullet ever could. Nothing she’d faced before had ever come close to that kind of heartache.
She’d been so relieved, so shaken down to her core that he was alive, that this man with the big, broad-shouldered body, the narrow hips, the rippling abs, the big, gentle hands was still here.
“Damn,” Buck crowed. “That was something to see.”
D-Day leaned over. “Don’t look so scared. I’m sure you can beat him. I’ve got my money on you.”
She snapped out of it, her chest heaving, working at making her pulse slow. She’d missed the whole thing, so lost in that blood-soaked moment.
It was then she met his gaze. She wasn’t sure if that memory was in her eyes, but he blinked, tilted his head. “You up for the rest of the game?”
She clenched her jaw. His eyes were like burning twin bark, and there was no mistaking his concern. He called to her soul, to the part of her that craved the connection she had never been granted, the one her ancestors had withheld.
“You’re not going to get off that easily,” she murmured. “It’s still your table.”
He turned back to the game, shot two more balls, then missed on the next shot. He was halfway through clearing the table.
He stepped back. Bailee leaned over, trying to focus on angles and geometry, but her body knew better. Her hands trembled on the cue, her pulse a sharp, erratic beat. She sank the stripe by luck more than skill, missing again as that memory intruded. Her heart pounded.
D-Day murmured, “It’s all right. We’re all tired and drunk.”
His soothing was sweet, but she was annoyed at herself.
Bear moved back in and it was all over. He easily sank his remaining balls, then the eight ball.
D-Day and Buck slid into their place at the table, cues in hand, and the noise around them surged again. Bailee stepped back, pulse still thundering from the match. She grabbed Bear’s shot glass on impulse and threw it back in one swallow, the tequila searing down her throat. He fell into step beside her as they crossed to the bar, his shoulder brushing hers, steady and deliberate.
Bear lifted two fingers at the bartender. “Two more shots.”
The man nodded, poured quickly, and set down fresh glasses, the clear liquid gleaming under the amber lights. The air smelled of lime, beer, and sweat, the steady thump of bass from the jukebox vibrating under her feet.
Bailee tossed hers back fast, the burn going molten in her belly. She swayed a little, caught the bar rail for balance.
Bear downed his in one clean gulp, then leaned forward, bracing thick forearms on the wood. His hair slipped forward over his shoulders like a curtain of black ink, catching the glow. His voice was low, steady. “You get home often?”
The words punched through her. She closed her eyes, throat working, freezing at the weight of them. “No,” she rasped, then cleared her throat, forcing steel back into her voice. “You?” It was safer to turn it on him, safer than opening herself to anything about her tribe, her grandmother, the silence she carried like a wound.
“Yeah. Every chance I get.” He stayed quiet for a beat, gaze fixed on the bottles lined behind the bar, his jaw tight in profile. Then his mouth eased, the faintest curve softening his face. “My little brother, Nathaniel, is graduating from high school. He’s a pistol.” His head turned, eyes catching hers. “You have any siblings?”
Her stomach clenched. The word stuck in her throat. “No.”
He nodded once, lips pressed flat. “I had three. Than’s all that’s left.”
Her chest tightened. “Oh, what? I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” His tone was even, but his knuckles whitened where they rested on the bar. “Thatcher was a Marine.”
Her voice softened. “Iraq?”
A short nod. “Yeah.”
“You cut your hair for him, didn’t you?”
