“I’m always in control,” she snapped, pulling back just far enough to look up at him. Her throat ached, her words raw. “But I’m not here.” She could taste the tequila on her own breath. She’d hate herself for letting it make the choice.
The admission burned, terrifying and true. She’d just confessed the thing she never admitted, not weakness, but need.
For a heartbeat, she thought he’d walk. His eyes searched hers, dark and stormy, and then softened in a way that unraveled her worse than silence.
Her voice broke softer, the edge of steel stripped away. “Then hold me,” she whispered. “Just hold me.” The plea shamed her, but it also freed her.
Something in him cracked. He drew her into his chest, arms folding around her until she felt wrapped, anchored, safe. Her cheek pressed to the rough stubble of his jaw, his hair brushing her temple, his heat surrounding her.
It should have been enough. But when her lips found his again, softer this time, her fingers slid down, catching the hem of his shirt. She pushed it up, needing skin. His muscles shifted beneath her touch, the hard planes of his stomach searing against her palm?—
And then she felt it. Raised and ragged under her fingertips. The scar.
Her breath caught.
The room disappeared.
Blood. The hot rush of it against her palms. His eyes going dim. That unbearable second in Rio when she thought he was gone. The despair that had gutted her deeper than any bullet ever could.
What had this done to her? Why was this roaring back? Why couldn’t she just have him?
She jerked back, stumbling.
“This—” Her voice cracked. “This is a mistake,” she said and hated how much it sounded like the sweat lodge’s silence, like every time the call never came.
His brows drew tight, pain flashing in his eyes before he masked it. His breath caught, jaw clenching hard, as if she’d just struck him.
“Bailee—”
“Go.” Her hands shook as she shoved at his chest. “I can’t do this. Not with you.” She bit her lip. He was too much, too close, already too close.
For a heartbeat his gaze flickered, raw and unguarded, before the mask slammed down. As if she’d just confirmed the fear he’d always carried.
Silence stretched heavy between them. Then he nodded once, sharp, and stepped back. His footsteps faded down the hall, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
She pressed her trembling hands to her face, her pulse still thundering. The scar still burned on her fingertips, like fire she couldn’t wash off.
4
Bear gripped the wheel hard enough that the leather creaked under his palms. Her taste was still on his mouth, the shape of her body still branded to his skin, but all he could hear was the rasp of her voice. Not with you.
Christ. He knew he hadn’t misread her. He’d felt her want, the way she melted into his arms, the way she kissed him like he was the only man who’d ever mattered. That wasn’t nothing. That was truth. Yet the moment her hand touched the scar, she recoiled as if burned, and it was him left smoldering in the wreckage.
The thought of spinning any deeper into this with her right now was unbearable. If he pushed, if he stayed, he would break himself against her walls. Damn, he was halfway there. Maybe break her, too. He wasn’t that man. He couldn’t be.
Silence pressed in, heavy as stone. It had always been his refuge. As a boy, silence had meant survival. Don’t ask, don’t need, don’t force yourself where you weren’t wanted. He had learned early that wanting too much drew anger, that asking drew nothing but empty air. Better to sit quiet, watchful, unnoticed. He’d carried that discipline into every corner of his life, a second skin so tight it cut off breath. Tonight, it wrapped hard around his throat, choking the words he would never say.
Neglect had carved him hollow. Not in blows, not in rages, but in the endless absence of notice. No hand on his head, no voice calling his name like it mattered. Just the quiet echo of being unseen, until quiet itself became the only safe companion. Losing Thatcher, then Ayla, had only reinforced what he already believed: Silence kept you alive. Silence spared you the unbearable ache of asking and being denied.
But his body remembered what his mind refused. Hunger lodged under his skin, a raw ache for touch, for heat, for the simple weight of someone choosing to hold on. It gnawed at him now, cruel in its simplicity. Bailee’s mouth had been fire against his, her body curved to his like it was made for him and then ripped away in the next breath. He still felt her recoil seared into his chest, a phantom imprint that left his arms burning with emptiness.
Skin remembered what silence erased. It screamed for what he had never learned how to name. So he drove harder, jaw locked, muscles rigid, pretending that discipline was enough. Pretending silence was still his refuge, when all it did was leave him starving.
So he chose the only thing that ever steadied him. Duty. Order. Training. If he pulled himself out of her orbit, maybe they’d both be spared. He was due for his mandatory rotation through the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL Training or BUD/S, and if he asked Joker to move him up, his LT would agree.
Before he could change his mind, he took the turn that would lead him to Joker’s house.
La Jolla’s hills rolled up out of the fog like something painted. Terracotta roofs and white stucco glowed under the streetlights, palm fronds swaying against the night sky. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and ocean salt, money and ease. Driveways held Teslas, surfboards stacked beside garages, security lights sweeping immaculate lawns.
