She pauses, looks up at me. There’s surprise in her eyes, like she’s not used to compliments. Then back to work.
“Why’d you leave the Bureau?”
Her hands still for a moment. When she speaks, it’s barely audible: “Couldn’t save anyone that mattered.”
“Victor?”
She shakes her head. Presses gauze to the wound, starts taping it down. Each piece of tape requires her to lean closer, her hair brushing my chest. She smells like shampoo and something uniquely her.
“Before Victor?” I prompt.
“Children.” One word, loaded with weight.
She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to. I know that particular weight—the cases you can’t solve, the people you can’t save. They accumulate until you either break or walk away.
“Is that why you left? The children?”
A small nod. She returns to taping the bandage, but there’s tension in her movements now.
“How long were you with the Bureau?”
Silence. She focuses on the bandage as if it requires all her concentration.
“Come on, give me something here.” I try to keep my tone light, but frustration bleeds through. “Favorite food? Where you grew up? Anything?”
She glances up, those golden eyes wide, vulnerable. Like she wants to answer but can’t find the words. Or is afraid to.
And fuck, that vulnerability—it’s hitting every protective instinct I have. This woman, who faced down armed killers and kept evidence safe despite everything, now looks like she might shatter if I push too hard.
It’s dangerous; this need to protect her. Not just from Phoenix or Nexus or whoever’s hunting her. But from whatever made her go this quiet. Whatever convinced her that her words were too much.
“Forget it,” I say, softer. “You don’t have to?—”
“Five years.” Her voice barely carries. “FBI for five years.”
Not much, but it feels like a crack in the wall between us.
She finishes the bandage and sits back on her heels.
The sight hits me like a sucker punch.
That position—kneeling, head slightly bowed, eyes lifted—is one I’ve seen too many times. But this is different. Talia doesn’t know the language of obedience, but she’s sitting in it—unaware, unguarded, perfect—and my body reacts the same way it always has.
Fast. Hard. Hungry.
Jesus Christ.
Too many thoughts flash, hot and filthy, before I slam them down.
She’s not one of them. She’s not a release valve. She’s the woman I just rescued from a kill squad.
I drag in a breath, force control back into my hands, my voice, my face.
Our eyes meet and hold. The silence hums—thick with everything I shouldn’t be thinking.
She’s beautiful like this. Focused. Competent. Those golden eyes that see everything but give nothing back. The way her teeth catch her lower lip when she concentrates.
It shouldn’t make me want her more. But it does.
