I turned back to Colt, my hand still anchored on Melanie’s thigh. “It’s called passion,” I said, stabbing my fork into the green beans like they’d personally offended me. “Something you should get familiar with.”
“You knew?” Melanie asked, turning her eyes on Abigail. Her voice had a curious edge to it, but there was something deeper, searching.
Abigail wiped her mouth, then nodded. “I had a feeling. The way you looked when you said he was coming to Vegas… it was different. And let’s be honest—when people act like they hate each other that much, it’s usually because they’re terrified of how much they feel.”
She glanced at Colt, and the air shifted, like there was something old and unfinished lingering between them.
Melanie laughed, nervous and airy. “Yeah… we’ve got that love-hate thing going.”
She laid her hand over mine beneath the table, and I immediately wove our fingers together. Her skin was soft, but the tension between us was anything but. I brought her hand to my lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it—slow, deliberate.
Electricity.
It hit me hard. My breath stalled. Her eyes flew up to mine and locked, and for a moment, the room disappeared. We looked at each other like two people trying to memorize the stars—wide open and a little undone.
Her lips parted like she might say something—or maybe just to breathe. And all I could think about was how good they’d look wrapped around my cock.
“So what, you fell in love over a long weekend in Vegas?” Colt asked, deadpan as he chewed his food, eyes sharp on me.
He wasn’t buying it. Colt had always been able to read me. He was more brother than friend—we grew up at each other’s houses. My mom was always working. Nora took me and my sister in like one of her own. Between her nursing shifts and my mom’s back-to-back gigs at the bar and cleaning houses, it was Colt’s family who gave me any sense of normal.
“Pretty much,” I said with a smirk. “But it started earlier. Back at Roxie’s.”
Melanie gave me a sideways glare and swatted my arm. “You did not save me.”
“Sure I did,” I said, letting my voice drop to that low, teasing register that always made her squirm. “Just admit it princess—I was your knight in shining armor. You were waiting for someone like me, and when I showed up, you couldn’t resist.” I winked, and something in her body loosened. Just a fraction, but I felt it. That slight melt. That surrender.
She was playing her part well—flirty, enamored, and convincing. But beneath all the pretending, something real was cracking through. And if I wasn’t careful, I would lose control of this whole game.
I watched my mom closely as I recited the story Melanie and I rehearsed. Her face was unreadable at first, but something in her softened with every detail. Her eyes lingered on Melanie a little longer. Her jaw unclenched. Maybe she was starting to buy it—perhaps she was letting herself picture Melanie as part of the family.
I sure as hell hoped so.
Mom and I never talked about girls. Never spoke about anything soft or sentimental. Growing up, she was always too busy scraping together enough to keep the lights on. She never asked what kind of woman I saw myself ending up with—and honestly, Ididn’t know how to answer that anyway. I never had a type. In high school, I dated anyone who’d have me. In the military, I’d been with women from every corner of the world. Different shades, different accents, different bodies—but all of them just temporary warmth, a way to forget. No strings. No depth.
So showing up with a blonde bombshell—stacked, blue-eyed, and confident—wasn’t exactly outside the realm of possibility. At least, not on the surface.
But Melanie… she was different. She didn’t just look good on my arm—she challenged me. Called me on my bullshit. Didn’t melt under the weight of my mood or let me coast on charm. She stared me down, sharp and stubborn, and God help me, I liked it. She didn’t give me an inch—and that made me want to give her everything.
If I ever saw myself getting married, it wasn’t to someone who worshipped the ground I walked on. It’d be someone who made me work for every goddamn step toward her. Someone who’d take my scars, my silence, and still reach for my hand.
And speaking of scars…
The ones on my hands and forearms weren’t just stories—they were reminders. Burned into me the night I pulled Mike—our colonel, our team lead—out of that explosion. People in town talk about it like I was some kind of hero. They look at me like I walked through hell and came out clean.
But they don’t talk about Chaos.
My dog. My partner. My best damn friend.
He went in with me and didn’t come back out.
I can still hear his claws on concrete, the low rumble of his growl, the way his ears twitched even in sleep. He was trained for war but still had this goofy loyalty that made the hardest days bearable. That night, I had to choose. Save Mike… or watch them both die.
So I saved the man. And lost the one soul that had never let me down.
People see the hero—the survivor.
They don’t see the man who couldn’t save his dog.
