"So we do it again."
"Yeah. We do it again."
I settle into position, sight through the window, and wait.
This time, I'm not just fighting for survival.
I'm fighting for the right to choose. To be whoever I want to be—Magnolia or Maggie or something in between.
I'm fighting because Coulten Harrison chose me over protocol, and I'll be damned if I let the cartel prove him wrong.
The vehicles start moving forward.
"Here we go," Colt says quietly.
And I'm ready.
SEVEN
FROST
Three vehicles.Moving through the darkness, headlights cut low to avoid silhouetting against the dunes, but I've already clocked them from the ridge's edge, scopes pulling their dust trails into sharp focus.
Depending on how they're manned, we're looking at a minimum of three, max of twelve men—reinforcements for the eight idiots we dropped earlier, the cartel's way of saying they don't take failure lightly.
I knew they'd come; hell, I was counting on it. It's why what just happened on that couch was a bad idea from the start—protocol screaming in my skull, every tactical bone in me yelling to keep sharp, keep distant, keep her safe by not getting sloppy with distractions.
But I don't regret it.
Not a goddamn second. Magnolia curled against me, all fire and need and that fierce surrender in her eyes? That was the first real thing I've let myself grab hold of since Sofia, since I locked down and let the world turn gray.
Fucking Magnolia was reckless, yeah, buried deep in her heat,chasing that edge together, then going back for more with my mouth on her until she was trembling again.
Worth every risked minute, every beat of vulnerability, because in that stolen haze we weren't targets or ghosts—we were alive, connected, and it burned away five years of ice in my veins.
Let them come. I'll fight for this now, too.
Even if the odds suck.
I'm at the window with night vision down, counting weapons, assessing formation, cataloging threats with the cold efficiency that comes from a decade of doing this. But my hands are still warm from touching Maggie, and I can still taste her on my lips, and that's a problem.
Can't be thinking about how she felt under my hands when killers are closing in.
Can't be distracted by the way she said my name—Colt, not Frost—when I need to be tactical and sharp and focused on keeping her alive.
But I am distracted. For the first time in five years, since Sofia died and I started wearing her dog tags like penance, I'm distracted by something other than ghosts.
By someone who's still breathing.
"They're spreading out," I say, forcing my voice steady and professional. "Three-man teams. I count nine." But I know there’s more. I feel it in my gut.
Maggie moves to her window position, weapon up, and I catch her profile in the dim light—hair still messed from my hands, shirt inside out, lips swollen from my mouth. But her hands are rock-steady on the AR-15, her breathing controlled, her focus absolute.
Combat mode. Just like me.
Except I'm having a hell of a time staying in combat mode when five minutes ago I was memorizing the taste of her skin.
"Rules of engagement?" She's asking it like we're on patrol, like this is just another op, but I can hear the slight breathlessness underlying the words.
