“Goodnight, Cassie.”
And in the dark, the ghost holds my hand while I sleep.
SIX
“The Drift”
HALO
I wakebefore I open my eyes.
The first sensation is heat.
Not the stifling, humid heat of a jungle op, or the dry, dusty heat of the desert. This is living heat. Soft. Heavy. Anchored against my back.
An arm is draped over my waist. A hand is flat against my chest, fingers curled into the fabric of my thermal shirt. Legs are tangled with mine, seeking warmth in the freezing dark.
I don’t move. My training screamsThreat, but my body screamsHome.
It’s the most dangerous sensation I’ve had in six years.
I lie there in the dirt, trapped under the silver foil blanket, and I catalog the damage.
My heart rate is slow, steady. Too steady. I slept. Actually slept. Not the shallow, jagged dozing of an operator on watch, but deep, black sleep. Four hours of it.
If a kill team had found us, we’d be dead. I wouldn’t have heard them. I was too busy being warm.
Compromised.
I shift. Carefully.
Cassie makes a small, protesting noise in her throat and presses closer. Her forehead rests against my spine. Her breath is warm through my shirt.
And I am hard. Painfully, undeniably hard.
Biology. Friction. Body heat. It’s just mechanics.
Liar.
It’s her. It’s the smell of her—vanilla and sweat and woodsmoke. It’s the way she held my hand while the world tried to kill us.
I need to move. I need to get away from her before I do something stupid. Before I turn around. Before I wrap my arms around her and forget that I am a ghost and she is a mission parameter.
I grab her wrist. The one draped over me.
“Cassie.”
She stirs. Tightens her grip. “Mmm?”
“Wake up.”
My voice is rough. Grinding gears.
She shifts, pulling back slightly. The cold air rushes into the gap between us, sharp and sobering.
“What time is it?” she whispers.
“Time to move.”
