Without another word, he stalked toward her. When he got to her, he pulled her into his arms. “I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth,” he said, that smile deadly as his mouth slammed down on hers.
He kissed her like he was starving, like he was claiming, like he didn't give a damn who was watching. He kissed her in front of his teammates and the helicopter pilots, a raw, desperate, public claiming that left no room for doubt.
She kissed him back with the same kind of fire, a desperate, consuming heat that made the rest of the world disappear. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, and without a word, he walked to Jet.
The guys went silent. Boomer gawked. Skull's eyes went wide. Boomer choked on his own spit, and Hazard just shook his head in disbelief. GQ let out a low whistle, and Kodiak looked like he thought Break was going to need his med kit.
Breakneck mounted Blair’s man-hating horse like it was a docile pony, swinging into the saddle with an easy, fluid grace. Jet’s coat rippled, a shiver of outrage running through his powerful frame, and he let out a warning snort, his ears pinned flat. Break just set a steady hand against the horse's neck, murmuring something too low to hear, and the big horse… settled.
Blair gaped, her mouth literally dropping open. No man had ever gotten close enough to him to matter. Jet had downright hated Darrow on sight, a visceral, immediate judgment. But with Breakneck, there was a silent understanding, a meeting of two unbreakable spirits.
Iceman, watching from the chopper door, said dryly, "Looks like you're set for your ride back."
Break extended a hand to her, his eyes burning with an intensity that stole her breath. "You coming, woman?"
She approached, and he pulled her up behind him in one smooth, powerful motion. The rotors started spinning as the guys loaded up, their catcalls and whistles a dull roar in the background. She wrapped her arms around Breakneck's waist, nuzzling against the warm skin of his neck, smelling sweat, gunpowder, and him.
"You are a piece of work, you know that, Kelly."
He huffed a laugh, a deep, rumbling sound she felt in his chest. "Yeah, I do. Right back at you, beautiful."
Then he kicked Jet into motion, and they rode away from the wreckage, a single, united force against the setting sun.
43
Back at TOC, the air was thick and stale, smelling of coffee, sweat, and the acrid tang of cordite that still clung to their gear. The debrief was taking too damn long. Every word felt like a stone in Breakneck’s gut. All he could think about was getting closer to Blair. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, but he heard every word she said, each one a testament to the cost of the day.
She stood at the front of the room, a stark figure against a screen full of maps and data. Her face was pale, smudged with dirt and exhaustion, but her voice was steady, a fragile thread of control holding the room together.
“What we’ve done today is phenomenal. Out of The Eightfold Kings, we’ve apprehended half of the cartel and a lieutenant who murdered and threatened our people. Not a bad day’s work.”
A smattering of applause went through the room, a hollow, tired sound that felt wrong. Blair didn’t join in. Her gaze swept over the assembled faces, her own eyes holding a depth of sorrow that made Breakneck’s chest ache.
“It wasn’t without casualties,” she continued, her voice dropping, losing its professional edge for just a moment. “We lost Constable Leah Morris and Bradley Davis.” She paused, letting the names hang in the air, a heavy weight on every soul present. “Beef has a concussion and a broken arm and will hopefully be released in a few days.” She took a breath. “Sundance…” Her breath hitched, a tiny, audible sound of pain. She quickly wiped at her eye with the back of a gloved hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically vulnerable it felt like a punch to Breakneck’s gut. “He’s alive, with the vet, undergoing surgery, but his injury is severe. The prognosis is he may not be returning as Beef’s mount.”
A wave of murmurs went through the room. Breakneck felt the collective sorrow like a physical pressure, but his focus was on her. He watched the way her shoulders squared, the way she forced herself to stand straighter, fighting back the grief with pure force of will. All he wanted to do was cross the room, pull her into his arms, and tell her it was okay to break. But he was rooted to his spot, a silent observer in a room full of people.
“With the intel we collected at the ranch, and Ayla’s excellent analysis,” she said, her voice regaining its command, “we discovered one other King who was joining them at the ranch. We apprehended him at the airport. The Shadow King, Arturo Calderón.”
She turned to Ayla, who stepped forward. “Tell them what you found on his phone.”
“The RCMP mole,” Ayla said, her voice crisp and clear. “CBSA Bryce Halden. He was arrested fleeing the country.”
Blair’s voice held the room, a steady anchor in the sea of exhaustion. “We got the mole. We got the Shadow King. We have enough intel to dismantle the rest of The Eightfold Kings. This was a good day.”
She didn’t look like it was a good day. She looked like she was holding the weight of every casualty, every injury, every single ounce of grief in the room on her shoulders. Breakneck watched her, his own need to get to her a physical ache, a low thrumming beneath his skin that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the woman who was breaking herself to keep everyone else whole.
As the room began to stir, people shifting, leaving to disperse into their own private griefs, a figure detached himself from the shadows at the back. Darrow. He moved with a rigid, unnatural grace, his face a mask of cold fury poorly concealed by a veneer of professional calm. He didn't approach the front. His presence was a drop of poison in the well.
He stopped just inside the doorway, his eyes finding Blair across the room. The look he gave her wasn't one of a colleague congratulating another on a job well done. It was pure, undiluted venom. It was the stare of a man who saw his own ambitions torched on the pyre of her success.
Blair felt his gaze before she even saw him clearly. It was a physical sensation, a sudden chill that cut through the stuffy air. She turned, her body tensing instinctively, and their eyes locked. The air crackled between them, a silent, violent conversation.
You stole this. This was supposed to be mine.
Blair simply held his gaze, her own expression hardening into polished steel. There was no triumph in her eyes, only a profound and weary pity. She saw him for what he was, a small man in a big room, furious that the world had failed to recognize his perceived greatness.
Breakneck saw the exchange. He saw the way Darrow's jaw tightened, the subtle clench of his fists at his sides. He saw the way Blair’s shoulders squared in dismissal. Darrow was a threat, but not a physical one. He was a gnat, buzzing around the edges of a monumental achievement, trying to inject his own poison into the narrative. He was irrelevant.
