Eventually, he’d been the one giving orders, and the need to stay shut down was even greater. When lives depended on clear eyes and steady hands, emotion was a liability. There was no room for panic or softness. He’d gotten so good at it he barely remembered how to feel at all.
After the night of Caroline Whitmore’s accident, he’d clung to that control like a lifeline. The therapist the department had made him see had told him what he already knew: He was damn good at compartmentalizing, at putting his feelings in a locked box and walking away. Except lately, the box didn’t always hold. The panic came anyway, in a sick rush of failure, and every time it did, it cut straight through the walls he’d spent a lifetime building, reminding him of the one truth he couldn’t outrun—when it mattered the most, he hadn’t been enough.
Lily scared him in some ways more than panic did. Panic he could ride out, breathe through. It had an end, if he could just force his mind to push past the feelings. But Lily stripped himof that ability with nothing more than a look. She didn’t see a Marine barking orders or a sheriff holding the line. She saw the man underneath, the one who wanted her more than he wanted to keep his walls intact.
It fucking terrified him. Because if she was wrong about him—if she looked too closely and saw the failure he really was—he didn’t know if he was strong enough to survive that.
“You okay?” she asked, tilting her face to look at him with drowsy, sated eyes.
“Yeah,” he said roughly, softening his words by pressing a kiss to her pretty, freckled cheek.
He couldn’t give her what she wanted most—not the family or the babies she deserved—and she deserved it all. But as she settled back into his arms, trusting him to keep her safe, he knew he was too damn selfish to let her go. For tonight anyway, he’d hold on, even if he had no right to.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The kitchen smelled like Christmas.
Barefoot at the stove, Lily hummed along with the radio while the griddle hissed and popped. She poured another circle of batter, waited for the bubbles to rise, then piped a spiral of cinnamon brown sugar across the top.
The swirl melted into the pancake, caramelizing and making the kitchen smell divine, despite Rush’s sparse pantry. A box of cereal, protein bars, and one lonely pancake mix, which she was using now. She’d scavenged cinnamon, sugar, eggs, and butter, and then hit the jackpot when she found cream cheese in the fridge.
Riggs hovered close, eyes locked on her, ever hopeful for another taste of pancake. She slipped him another piece as both a peace offering and agood doggy, don’t bite meincentive. Honestly, she probably didn’t need to worry anymore. Somewhere between last night and this morning, she and Riggs had come to an understanding: She pretended he wasn’t a big scary police dog, and he pretended she was in charge so long as she kept the treats coming. So far, it was working beautifully.
After Rush had taken her back to his bed last night—well,early this morning—Lily had slept like the dead until Riggs woke her with a long, cold nose in her neck. Apparently, she was in his spot, but when she’d put on another one of Rush’s oversized T-shirts and padded downstairs, the dog had followed her.
She let him out into the frosty air, and when he was done with his business, he’d herded her over to the container of dog food in the mudroom, nudging her insistently until she’d fed him. Then he’d sighed deeply and stationed himself near her as she moved through slow sun salutations in the sunlight pouring in through the picture window.
Breath by breath, she’d eased herself into calm. Back to her center. Because last night had been… intense. It always was with Rush, but something had shifted. For the first time, she’d felt him cracking open and letting her in.
When she’d woken up to find his side of the bed empty, she’d followed the steady thump of fists down the hall and found him in front of a punching bag. The look in his eyes when he’d turned—God. It had nearly put her on her knees.
She’d once thought he was stoic. Guarded. Removed from the tsunami of emotions she felt so deeply sometimes it hurt, but she was wrong. Every emotion lived on his face last night—every punishing thought, every memory, every shard of guilt bleeding through his eyes.
Her own throat had burned. She’d wanted to weep for him, to scream at the injustice of it all—that a man who gave everything to protect would torture himself for the one life he couldn’t save.
But she didn’t because if she cried, he would’ve comforted her instead, and that wasn’t what he needed.
It was her turn to take care of him.
So she had, the only way he’d let her. She’d slid her hands over sweat-slicked muscles and kissed the salt from his skin.She’d used her body, slowly, gently, until his body stopped shaking with anger and started trembling with want.
The sex hadn’t been frantic or rough this time. She’d held his gaze while she’d rolled her hips, smoothing her hands over his chest and taking him deeper and holding his gaze when he’d tried to look away. She’d wanted him to see her, to feel her, to know he wasn’t alone in that darkness.
Now, the first wistful notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” played over the radio. She’d always thought it was one of the sadder Christmas songs. Ah, well. Mixed emotions all around today, apparently.
She whisked the batter briskly and poured big circles onto the buttered griddle.
A sound behind her made her glance up. Rush leaned in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips. His arms were folded across his bare chest as he watched her. She smiled, thinking once again that he and Riggs shared many similarities.
He glanced at the messy counter—powdered sugar, butter, and cream cheese ready for the icing—and raised a brow. “What’s that?” he asked, looking with interest at the bowl she was mixing.
“Cream cheese icing,” she said. “For cinnamon roll pancakes. Merry Christmas,” she added, smiling when he came closer, backing her against the counter and nuzzling her neck. “I hope you don’t mind.” She sighed, closing her eyes. Rush woke up hungry and horny, if the tent in his pants was any indication. She relaxed and let his hands wander under the hem of the T-shirt. Looked like last night hadn’t ruined things between them.
“I’m starving,” he murmured, cupping her ass and kneading. He bent to kiss her, all minty and addictive, and she settled into his chest as he took the kiss deeper.
“Mmm,” she sighed happily when he pulled away and smiled at her, scruffy and barely awake.
Rumpled morning-after Rush was the only Christmas present she needed.
