He’d walked the edge before, but he couldn’t rush her. Patience and time were his allies, but they might not have the luxury of either.
He had sent Flint with her because she’d been too stubborn, too overwhelmed, too afraid to let him close. She hadn’t been able to take the comfort she wanted so badly she could barely breathe around it.
He’d known.
He always knew.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes, swallowing a sob she wasn’t about to let loose.
What was she doing to him? What was she doing to herself?
She hated that she’d let it get to this, shutting him out all over again. But the memories flooded her, and she couldn’t seem to find her balance, and she knew she could lean on him. Always. He would let her lean, but how was she going to get through all of this if she let herself be weak?
Bailee sat on the sofa in the suite in nothing but a tank and panties, Flint curled against her body. She was grateful for the dog. He was comfort, warmth, presence in a fur-lined package, a lifeline to Bear, a clear message that he was with her, even if she couldn’t allow him to be. Hours passed, the distant thrum of Ipanema filtering through the glass like heartbeat and memory. Flint shifted and she closed her eyes, allowed the silence to swallow her whole.
Bear was giving her space, gentle as a man like him could be, and somehow that was worse. Sweeter. Devastating. He hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t demanded. He hadn’t stepped into the spiral she’d thrown herself into.
He’d just…let her go.
The worst part?
She missed him already.
She curled forward, forehead against her hands.
Did she want a future with him? Every part of her answered yes with a violence that frightened her. Could she survive it? Could she outrun the one thing clawing at her spine since the moment she saw the skyline of this city again?
The need to go home.
Could she go home and reconcile her past to be worthy of such a grounded man?
The one thing she’d avoided for years. The thing that terrified her more than bullets or blood or watching him drop in Rio, half-conscious and bleeding out in her arms.
Home.
Her grandmother’s face rose before her, the disappointment weathered deep into the lines around her eyes. Bailee’s stomach knotted painfully.
What did she have to offer her people now? What right did she have to walk back onto that land after turning her back on the path? After becoming a CIA officer? After using that badge, that job, every access point she had to search for Taryn undercover?
Would her grandmother respect that? Would she call it betrayal? Would she call it survival?
Taryn. Sweet, bright Taryn.
Bailee’s jaw clenched. She had gotten so close. She had run down every lead, every rumor, every whisper, and had lost her all over again. Her cousin was still gone, and the bone-deep guilt of that failure lived in her chest like something with teeth, chewing through her every time she thought she could breathe again.
Shame had been bad enough. But guilt? Guilt was a blade she’d learned to live around. She dragged in a breath that felt jagged, raw.
If she didn’t face this, if she didn’t unravel the knots she’d bound herself in, she would lose him. Lose Bear. Lose whatever lived between them. Lose herself, and she could feel it. She was right at the edge. Something in her chest trembled. Something in her spirit listened.
She rose before she could talk herself out of it. Crossed the room. Stopped at the connecting door. Her hand hovered. Her breath shook. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.
She turned the handle and pushed the door open. She froze at the sight that greeted her. Bear stood there. Just stood there. Like a sin. Like a prayer answered.
Water-slick and dripping from his hair, beads slid down his mahogany skin in slow, sinful lines, catching the last amber slant of sunset until he looked carved from heat and dusk. He wore only his UDT shorts, those damn, scandalous strips of fabric Zorro swore were illegal in twelve countries, clinging low on his hips, molded to the thick, powerful lines of him, leaving nothing to imagination and everything to want.
His chest was a broad, gleaming plane of muscle, every breath flexing over hard pecs and sculpted abs, water tracking the ridges like worship. His obliques cut down in deep, shadowed grooves that disappeared beneath the soaked fabric, teasing a path her hands and mouth ached to follow.
His hair hung in wet, dark ribbons around his face and shoulders, dripping down the strong column of his throat, each drop sliding over the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the dark stubble there before racing lower.
