"You don't need to thank me for keeping you alive." His hands are tight on the steering wheel, tension visible in every line of his body. "When I think about what would have happened if Duke hadn't alerted, if you'd gotten in that truck..."
"But I didn't. I'm here because Duke is trained and brilliant and you take this seriously." I reach over, covering one of his hands with mine. The contact is brief, but his fingers flex under my palm before I pull away. "I trust you, Devlin. Completely."
When he looks at me, his expression is raw and unguarded in a way I haven't seen before. "You shouldn't. I've lost people I was supposed to protect before."
"You didn't fail Ryan. An IED killed him, not you." I turn in my seat to face him fully. "And you're not failing me. You're theonly reason I'm still alive. The only reason I feel safe enough to keep fighting instead of running away."
He doesn't respond, but his jaw works like he's processing words he wants to say but can't quite manage. When we pull into base housing, he parks in front of a duplex unit that looks like every other military quarters I've ever seen. Functional, plain, temporary.
But when we walk inside, how much it feels like him surprises me. Organized but comfortable. Books on military history and K9 training mixed with fiction thrillers. Photos of Duke and what must be his K9 unit team. A lived-in space that's more home than I expected.
Duke immediately heads to his bed in the corner, circling twice before settling with a contented sigh. He deserves the rest after saving my life tonight.
Devlin shows me the guest room, the bathroom, where everything is located. Professional host showing a guest around.
"There's food in the fridge if you're hungry," he says, standing in the doorway like he's not sure whether to leave or stay. "Towels in the bathroom closet. If you need anything, anything at all, I'm right down the hall."
"Devlin." I step closer, tired of the careful distance we're both maintaining despite everything that's happened. "I know this is complicated. I know we're supposed to keep this professional. But I'm grateful you're here. That I'm here. That whoever is doing this hasn't won."
"They won't win." The promise in his voice is absolute. "Not while I'm breathing."
The intensity of it, the fierce protectiveness, the barely controlled rage at whoever tried to kill me tonight—all of it crashes into the attraction and trust and connection we've been building. We stand there in the hallway, close enough that heatradiates from his body, far enough that we're still maintaining the last threadbare pretense of professional boundaries.
Devlin's jaw tightens, and he takes a deliberate step back, clearing his throat. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we catch whoever did this."
I watch him walk away, then close the guest room door and lean against it. My heart is pounding and my mind is spinning with everything that's happened.
Tonight someone tried to kill me with a bomb. Tomorrow they're bringing Brad Hutchins in for questioning. And somewhere in Devlin's guest room, surrounded by the scent of his laundry detergent on the sheets and the distant sound of him moving in the other room, I'm more awake than asleep.
One thought keeps circling: what if they're wrong? What if it's not Brad? What if whoever planted that device is still out there, watching, waiting for their next chance?
And what if next time, even Duke and Devlin can't stop them?
6
DEVLIN
The guest room door closes, and I stand in the hallway trying to remember how to breathe normally. Andi's on the other side of that door, close enough to touch but separated by wood and walls and all the professional boundaries I've been clinging to like a lifeline.
Duke pads down the hallway, his nails clicking softly against the hardwood. He sits beside me with a huff that sounds suspiciously like judgment, then his stomach growls loud enough for both of us to hear. Right. Food. We left the diner hours ago after dealing with the explosive device and crime scene investigators and Andi's mother extracting promises about her daughter's safety.
I head to the kitchen, Duke trailing behind me. The clock on the microwave shows it's past when I'd normally eat. Andi must be starving, but she's probably too exhausted and overwhelmed to think about food. Or too polite to ask after everything that's happened tonight.
I pull ingredients from the fridge. Pasta, garlic, vegetables. Simple food that doesn't take long. While water heats on the stove, I move back down the hallway and knock softly on the guest room door.
"Andi? We never ate dinner. I'm making pasta if you're hungry."
Silence for a moment, then the door opens. She's changed into sleep clothes from her overnight bag, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual practical style. Seeing her ready for bed in my home, the casual intimacy of it—does something I can't afford to think about.
"You don't have to cook for me," she says, but her stomach betrays her with a soft growl.
"Yeah, I do. Come on." I gesture toward the kitchen. "Duke's already judging me for not feeding him on schedule. Might as well feed all of us before he files a formal complaint."
That gets a small smile from her, tired but genuine. She follows me to the kitchen, and Duke positions himself between us like he's afraid one of us might disappear if he's not watching.
I cook while Andi sits at the small dining table, her hands wrapped around a glass of water. The quiet routine of chopping vegetables and stirring pasta settles something that's been wound tight since Duke alerted to that explosive device. She's here. She's safe. She's breathing.
"Where'd you learn to cook?" she asks, watching me work with the same precision I apply to everything.
