She’d been in law enforcement long enough to recognize the pattern. Don’t show weakness. That only invites shame. Americans or Canadians, it didn’t matter. The uniform changed, the rules didn’t.
Shame. God, she knew that emotion like it was stitched into her bones. But giving in to it had only ever added a bitter edge to what she’d already lost. She had been injured. That part had been out of her control. But her dancing, there was nothing shameful in that. It had been hard work. Grueling. Demanding, and it had been wonderful.
What he was doing now, holding himself together through sheer force of will, she recognized that, too. It made her want to reach for him, not to fix what was broken, but to stand with him in the truth of it. To know him fully. To let herself be known in return.
That kind of knowing wasn’t safe.
But it was honest.
He changed the subject, the strong column of his throat working. “You did a good job on my 25. Clean as a whistle.” The tone changed imperceptibly, the cadence in his voice slipped down an octave, as if he wanted her to move closer to him.
The words landed heavier than she expected. She suspected praise from him wasn’t casual. The fact that he’d offered it at all told her he’d checked the work himself. “It’s a beautiful weapon.” She watched him approach, worried about his safety. Jet did fine when they were working, but he didn’t like to be cornered, and he especially felt vulnerable when he was cross-tied.
“Don’t,” Blair said.
He stopped.
She waited, keeping one hand on Jet’s neck.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Breakneck’s eyes slid to hers, gray and steady, with that intent focus that made her feel like the only thing in the room when he chose to give it. “Meeting your horse,” he said simply.
She blinked. “Jet doesn’t care for men.”
One of the SEALs snorted behind him. “Understatement,” Skull muttered. “Devil horse tried to eat me.”
Breakneck’s gaze didn’t leave her face. “You care for him,” he said quietly. “That’s enough for me.”
Something low and warm flickered under her ribs, and she crushed it fast. “I’m serious,” she said, fingers tightening slightly in Jet’s mane. “He was abused. He has his reasons. He doesn’t trust easily.”
“Neither do I,” Breakneck said.
Confirmation, but not surprising information. “You trusted me in the compound.”
“You earned it.” Then he looked at Jet.
The shift in him was close to imperceptible. His shoulders eased, his posture lowering a fraction, not in submission but in some kind of respectful alignment. His hand slid slowly away from his side, palm open, fingers loose, no direct reach, letting the horse see the shape of him.
He drew in a quiet breath, exhaled even slower.
Blair recognized the pattern now. Sniper breathing. The same cadence he trained himself to use behind the rifle. The same measured inhale and exhale he’d used when he’d steadied her in Interrogation Two while the world exploded around them.
Jet’s ears flicked. A tension moved through his neck, then lessened. Breakneck didn’t step closer. He let Jet decide.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, roughened by exhaustion. “It’s all right. I’m just standing here.”
The words weren’t special. There was nothing magical about them. But something in his tone, calm, patient, utterly unafraid, slid under Jet’s skin the same way it had under hers.
Jet snorted once, head jerking. Blair felt the tremor under her palm. Her muscles tensed on instinct.
Breakneck stayed exactly where he was.
“Smart boy,” he said. “You keep your distance. Make people earn it.”
Jet blew out a breath, longer this time. His neck muscles loosened. His head dropped an inch, then another, nostrils flaring as he took in Breakneck’s scent from afar.
Blair swallowed.
