The orgasm hits like a wave breaking—sudden, violent, crashing through me with enough force to steal my voice. I shatter against him, shaking, gasping his name.
He follows a moment later. A guttural sound tears from somewhere deep in his chest, his hips stuttering, his entire body going rigid against mine.
We stay there, pinned against the wall, breathing hard. His forehead rests on my shoulder. My fingers are tangled in his hair. Neither of us moves.
The anger is spent.
What’s left is raw. Exposed.
He carries me to the bed.
Lays me down on the scratchy comforter. Strips away the rest of our clothes with hands that are almost gentle now. Almost.
Then he’s over me again. Inside me again. Slower this time, but no less intense. Like he’s trying to apologize without words. Like he’s trying to find a version of this that isn’t war.
When we finally finish, I’m wrecked. Boneless. Floating somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.
He rolls off me. Lies on his back. One arm thrown over his eyes.
FOURTEEN
“The Truth”
HALO
I wakewith her wrapped around me.
Sunlight cuts through the gap in the curtains, sharp and thin, slicing across the stained carpet like a blade. The room smells like sex and sweat and something softer underneath—her. Vanilla and sleep and the particular warmth of a woman who stayed.
She’s still asleep, her head on my chest, her breath warm against my skin. Her hair is a tangled riot of red across my shoulder, catching the light in strands of copper and rust. One arm is draped over my waist, possessive even in sleep. Her leg is hooked over mine, skin against skin, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
I should get up. Check the perimeter. Contact the team. Run surveillance on the parking lot, verify our exit routes, confirm the van hasn’t been tagged overnight.
I don’t move.
Instead, I lie here like a civilian. Like a man with nowhere else to be. I count her breaths—slow, steady, peaceful in a way that seems impossible given everything we’ve survived. I trace the curve of her shoulder with my eyes, memorizing the scatterof freckles across her pale skin, the way her lashes rest against her cheeks.
A few days ago, she was a mission parameter. A package to extract and protect. A name on a file.
Now she’s this. Whatever this is.
She stirs. Shifts. Her leg slides higher over mine, and the friction sends heat pooling low in my gut—a slow, lazy burn that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with her.
Her eyes open. Green and sleep-soft, looking at me like I’m worth looking at. Like I’m something other than a weapon with a pulse.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
She stretches against me. Deliberate. Her body presses into all the right places, and I’m suddenly, painfully aware that we’re both still naked under the scratchy sheets. That there’s nothing between us but skin and want and the fading echoes of last night.
“We should get moving,” I say.
I don’t move.
“Probably.” She doesn’t either.
Her hand slides up my chest. Traces the scar on my collarbone—the old bullet wound from Fallujah, puckered and faded to silver. Her fingers are light, exploratory, mapping the terrain of damage and survival like she’s reading braille.
