But noooo. She had hovered like some concerned, lovesick fool, waiting for him. Waiting for what? For Dakota Locklear to demand clarity from her, to give her some kind of anchor in this storm of feelings she couldn’t control. That’s when the doubt crept in, insidious and sharp. Maybe she had misread him. Maybe all those glances, all that heat, were nothing more than her own foolish projections.
The shadow that haunted her, the one that kept her from speaking honestly, was the simplest and cruelest truth. A man like Bear would never choose a woman like her. Not when her ancestors hadn’t.
She hadn’t been chosen as her tribe’s medicine woman, the role that had been whispered over her since childhood, the path meant for women who could hear the ancestors, who carried healing in their bones and vision in their breath. She had waited for the signs, the dreams, the voices on the wind. Her birthright through generations of Thunderhawk women. Nothing had come. Only silence. Only the ache of knowing she wasn’t worthy of the calling.
She’d run from everything, turned her back on her grandmother, her tribe, her heritage, her home. She was still running, and she had no idea how to stop or how to claim a man that moved her in ways she had no words for, no thoughts or actions, just shaky, uneven, treacherous ground.
So, what chance did she stand with him? Bear, who moved with the quiet certainty of a man rooted in tradition and honored by it. Bear, whose faith ran deep and clean through every breath he took. If he ever saw the truth, saw the fraud she believed herself to be, his rejection would carve her open, and her shame would crush her. Now that she was falling for him, God, falling so hard she could barely breathe, the heartache would be devastating.
Why take the chance with so much of her heart at stake?
All that pain and doubt didn’t stop her reaction to him. Heat still scorched her skin, the steam of the shower bay clinging to him when he’d stepped into the hall. Water slicked down his chest, towel hung too tantalizingly low on his hips. Her nipples tightened against the damp cotton of her bra, ridiculous, unwanted, and she shoved the sensation down with the rest. Damn, that scent, soap, heat, and the faint wildness that was all Bear, had wrapped around her when he tugged her back. She could still feel his hand circling her wrist, steady, unyielding.
Her heart had nearly broken through her ribs in that doorway, remembering Rio, the blood pouring out of him, her hands useless and shaking as she tried to keep him tethered to the world. She had almost lost him then. And tonight. Twice in one lifetime was already too much.
Except he wasn’t hers to lose. Never had been. That was the problem. He tied her in knots she had no business unraveling.
Her throat burned. She hated that she noticed how he smelled, how he was put together, how he moved, spoke, and just took up space. She should have known better. She always should have known better.
She quickened her stride, shoulders locked against the ache in her chest. Professional. Cold. That was who she was. That was all she could be.
Then he’d shut her down with that quiet, maddening steadiness.
Don’t waste energy on me.
Damn, what if she didn’t want to save her energy? What if she wanted to spend it all on him, burn every last spark into his skin?
The thought froze her mid-stride. She stopped, hand braced against the cool wall, her breath shaky.
He made her weak, and she hated it. Hated and loved it. Weak in a way that sharpened everything else, her senses, her heart, even the ache low in her body. Weak in a way that made life more vivid.
It would be stupid. Reckless. Maybe even career suicide to entertain the thought of touching that man.
Her mouth went dry. She licked her lips, and her mind betrayed her, his mouth on hers, his heat pressed close, the taste of soap and sweat and something darker she’d never admit she craved.
Kissing him.
The hallway spun with the weight of it. She pushed off the wall and forced herself forward, stride sharp, eyes fixed anywhere but behind her. Better to keep walking. Better to stay in control.
2
Control. Was it a fucking illusion?
Her teeth ground together. She trembled, remembering the hospital room after his surgery, the sterile light and antiseptic sting in the air. He’d sat there, stitches fresh, stubbornly silent, while she worked her fingers through his damp hair to braid it back out of his face. The strands had slid over her knuckles, soft against skin that had touched too much blood. She told herself it was nothing but focus. A lie, and she knew it. Because part of her wanted to linger at the nape of his neck, to keep touching until she lost herself in him.
Even just now, when he’d grabbed her outside the shower, her skin had lit where his palm closed around her wrist. She bit her lip, hating herself for the way her mind betrayed her, replaying the sight of him dripping from the steam, the scar from Rio a pale slash across dark, delicious skin. The carved thickness of his biceps, the wide, beautiful chest, the kind of body that looked built to shield and destroy in equal measure.
There was so much to look at with him. So much to touch.
Dangerous thoughts, she shut them down. The depth of his beliefs scared her and shamed her. She’d left so much behind, and not by accident. It was survival. She couldn’t carry the silence of her ancestors without breaking. So she’d carved herself new, remade, relentless. Graced with a sacred trust, she was supposed to be more than a CIA operative. Hands meant to heal, to advise, to give…now only took, washed in blood. All that remained was bitterness, disappointment, and running, so much running. She hadn’t been chosen. Not for her people. Not for her ancestors. Maybe not even for him.
Her heart pounded like she was already halfway gone. Madness, when discipline was her armor. Wanting him? Needing him? Hating herself for it? That was trapped heat, feeding the insanity.
“Bailee. New intel. We’ve got them by the shorthairs,” one of the analysts said into her earpiece.
She clenched her fists at her sides and forced her legs to move again, stride sharp and steady. Better to pretend she didn’t feel it. Better to keep the shame pressed down deep where no one, least of all him, could see it.
The C-130 roared with the grind of engines, bodies jammed shoulder to shoulder in the webbed seats, duffels and weapons stacked neatly in the center. The smell of sweat, oil, and canvas pressed in close, a crush of exhaustion and victory humming in the air.
