She already knew those hands could be gentle. He’d manhandled her all over the jungle, steadying her, hauling her, protecting her. The details blurred in adrenaline and exhaustion, but him? Bear was crystal clear.
Heat burned under her skin, and shame bit at the edges. Her gaze tracked the muscle, precise as intel, irrelevant as hell. She was CIA. Disciplined. Untouchable. She didn’t get rattled, didn’t get reduced to lusting over a man’s muscles like they meant anything. Get it together, Thunderhawk. Control was survival, and here she was, losing it over muscles. Damn, some very nice muscles.
Stop it.
Flint whined, soft but insistent, breaking her spiral.
Before she thought better of it, she was already on her feet, crouching to unlatch the crate. The black Malinois stretched and padded out, pressing his head into her palm with a low huff.
Bear’s voice came from above her, that calm rumble that always seemed to cut straight to her bones. “You taking over my dog-handling duties, Bailee? You’ll have to check that out with Flint. He outranks me.”
She straightened, lifting her chin. “All the more reason not to keep him cooped up. Do you have a tennis ball or something? I’ll throw it for him.”
Something flickered across Bear’s face then, softening the hard lines, taking some of the edge from his silence. His eyes gave nothing away, but the shift was there, quiet and undeniable, like a door opening just a crack. Then, almost too low to catch over the engines, he murmured, “That laugh’s like sunshine.”
Bailee froze, heat streaking across her skin.
Before she thought about it, she whispered, “Thank you.”
He dipped his head in that unhurried way of his, reached into the pocket of his cargo pants, and pulled out a beat-up tennis ball. He pressed it into her hand, fingers brushing hers, callused warmth sparking heat straight through her.
The plane shifted, a sudden lurch that sent her balance tilting. Her stomach jumped, but before panic could flare, Bear was already up, his body braced against the swaying fuselage, solid as the bulkhead.
She grabbed for him instinctively, fingers twisting into the material of his shirt. The cotton was warm under her palm, stretched over muscle that radiated steadiness. Ancestors give her strength, he smelled good—clean sweat, sunbaked canvas, something earthy that made her ache to bury her face against his skin.
His hands came down around her, big and sure, steadying her like she was weightless.
He stared down at her, that beautifully formed, stoic face mesmerizing. His hair was raven-black, thick and heavy, the strands always brushing loose no matter how tightly he bound them. The light caught on the edges now, gleaming blue-black like a crow’s wing. His cheekbones were high and sharp, cut from Lakota ancestry, his jawline strong enough to look carved rather than grown. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his skin, roughening the clean lines, making him look both older and endlessly male.
His mouth was firm, lips too disciplined to curve into easy smiles, too stubborn to yield to softness. His eyes, dark, fathomless, set deep beneath steady brows, seemed to hold whole skies in their silence. Eyes that saw her, stripped her down, and left her shaken.
It was the kind of face that carried history, every line and shadow etched with quiet weight. A face that wasn’t just handsome. It was elemental.
As her gaze trailed down the strong column of his throat, she blinked. The bruise there marred his dusky skin, raw and angry, a livid reminder of what they’d barely survived. The sight snapped the jungle back into focus, flashes of bullets thudding through the air, his hands cupping her face, his arms cradling her against the dirt. The way he’d looked at her then, concern bleeding through that rugged, unyielding face, made her mind scramble all over again. Clear signals or her delusions?
Bits and pieces sharpened, the man who had dragged Bear down, the savage way Bear had fought back, unbowed, unstoppable. Something visceral stirred low inside her, not hunger, not pride, but a fierce, almost primal desire to protect him. The thought came sharp, hard, undeniable. She would throw herself in front of a bullet for him.
That kind of certainty scared the hell out of her. It made her want to pull back and lean closer all at once, heart hammering as if the danger were still all around them.
“You guys doing a staring match?” Zorro asked excitedly. “I’m next.”
Buck snorted. “God have mercy,” he muttered.
Bear gave his teammate a look that sent a shiver down Bailee’s spine. Dark, flat, the kind of look that could silence a room. But Zorro, being Zorro, leaned right into it, grin unshaken. “I can take you both.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at Bear’s mouth, tantalizing in its rarity. He shook his head once. “Martinez.” One word, heavy with warning and humor in equal measure.
Flint nosed her hand with the tennis ball, whining. Bailee crouched, grateful for the excuse to move, to break the intensity knotting in her chest. “All right, handsome,” she whispered to the dog. She threw the ball down the narrow aisle, watched him bound after it, nails clicking against the metal floor.
“He’ll run you ragged,” Bear murmured. “How’s that head?”
“A dull ache, nothing terrible,” she said. Her eyes flicked to that bruise, and she had the sudden urge to press her lips against that shadowed, seductive hollow. “Your throat?”
“A dull ache, nothing terrible.”
She laughed softly, and his dark brown eyes shone. “You really should do that more often.”
When Flint came back, she continued to throw it for him. After a few minutes, Blitz took over. She turned to find Bear, his head tilted back against the webbing, eyes closed, lashes fanning against the dark circles under his eyes.
