Bear swallowed hard, went down the steps, watching until he disappeared in the distance. The wind felt emptier for it, and his heart tugged toward those seven men.
The glass still sweated on the railing, catching the first hint of dawn over the ocean.
Beat a war drum? Fight for her? He didn’t know how to battle something that had already broken him open. He had his silence, and it had always protected him. But now he wasn’t sure which way was up.
5
The overhead lights hummed, cold and sterile. Bailee stood at the head of the table, tablet in hand, posture locked into a perfect line of authority. The mission slides glowed across the far wall, objectives, coordinates, the language of control.
The team filed in one by one. Boots. Chairs. Murmured greetings. Familiar rhythm, the kind she could lose herself in.
She waited for him.
Bear always entered last, quiet, steady, a wall of calm that filled the space without claiming it. His presence grounded her, even when she pretended not to notice. But the doorway stayed empty.
The seconds stretched too long.
Then a younger man walked in, a new face, fresh uniform, eyes confident and cocky. A Belgian Malinois followed at his heel, lean, young, his coat like shadows carved by firelight, eye a molten gold, intelligent and unnervingly direct.
The sound that left her chest was too small to count as breath.
She turned to Joker, frown tight, practiced. “Where’s Bear?”
Joker’s grin faltered. “Took his instructor rotation early, Bailee. BUD/S.”
Her throat closed before she could catch it. The room seemed to tilt, not visibly, but enough that she had to ground herself with one palm against the table’s edge.
BUD/S. Early. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
Joker’s eyes were neutral. The others went still. She could feel their attention; they weren’t happy about their missing teammate. She searched their faces, resentment, awareness, some sympathy, but minimal. They were his brothers, and they would rally around him. Made perfect sense.
His choice to take his rotation early was, in every respect, her fault and they knew it. How could they have missed the way she’d flirted with him, the way she’d thrown herself at him, and now that he was…absent, they knew she had hurt him somehow. How could they not blame her?
Her stomach hollowed. Shame burned through her, sharp as acid.
She forced herself upright, spine straight, voice even. The only betrayal was in the tremor that didn’t quite reach her hands. She focused on the young handler standing awkwardly in the doorway, his hand resting lightly on the dog’s collar.
“You are?”
“Petty Officer Benedicto Margoza, ma’am,” he said quickly, the vowels tight with nerves. “Callsign Razor. This is Raider.”
The dog sat perfectly still, gaze sharp, waiting for command. Too eager, too new. She noted it automatically, grateful for the familiar terrain of assessment.
She gave a short nod. “You have some big shoes to fill.” The dog’s gaze caught hers, dark, intelligent, unblinking, and she felt the sting of recognition. Flint’s absence lived in that space between them, the echo of what she’d driven away.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her voice was calm now, detached. Her tone belonged to the job again, not the woman who’d just been gutted.
“Let’s get to the mission,” she said, cutting off any further questions before they formed. Inside, the shame still burned, but it was contained now, hidden beneath precision, duty, and the mask she’d learned to wear so well.
She turned sharply, eyes fixed on the projection screen. The team began settling again, murmurs resuming, but her heart was nowhere in the room.
“Let’s get to the mission,” she said, voice level. Precision would keep her upright. Precision would keep her from thinking about the empty doorway.
They did. Maps. Logistics. Targets. She moved through it flawlessly, the consummate professional. But inside, she was bleeding.
When the room finally cleared, she stayed where she was, still staring at the coordinates. The air tasted like metal. Bear’s absence pressed against her chest, dense and immovable.
