The moment Darrow’s voice hit the air, a change rippled through Jet. His head snapped up from his feed, his ears swiveling forward like radar dishes. A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, primal warning. His nostrils flared, tasting the air, and his eyes, dark and intelligent, fixed on Darrow with an immediate, undisguised hatred. It was a visceral, animalistic rejection.
A cold anger coiled in Breakneck’s gut. He leaned against the stall, crossing his arms, his gaze fixed on Blair. Jet’s reaction made her straighten, her own weariness momentarily forgotten. Darrow was blind if he couldn’t see the storm brewing in the horse’s stall, let alone in the woman standing beside it.
“I would suggest that you table your bitterness for another day, Darrow,” Breakneck said, his voice low and even.
“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Darrow sneered, completely ignoring both the man and the horse, his focus a bitter laser on Blair. “You took over this operation, and now I look like a fool.”
Blair slowly turned her head, and the look she gave Darrow was glacial.
“You didn’t need Blair’s help for that,” Breakneck said, unable to stop the jab.
Darrow’s mouth thinned. He finally swung his glare to Breakneck. “Shut up. This is none of your business.”
Breakneck nodded slowly. “You’re right. It isn’t. But she is my business, so go fuck yourself, Darrow.”
Blair sighed, the sound heavy with a bone-deep weariness that went far beyond this one moment. She looked at Darrow, and no anger was left in her, only a vast, hollow disappointment. “What is the point of these attacks, Matthew? This isn’t about who gets credit, something you still can’t see even in this instance. We’re dismantling a cartel, a huge threat against Canadians and the world. This isn’t an individual win. This is a collective win for WILD as a whole and our collaboration with the US. What you should be focusing on is that we lost people today, and a courageous mount.” Her voice cracked on the last word, a tiny fissure in her composure. “Beef was injured and could have died. I’m sick to death of your pettiness and your inability to understand what we do here. Law enforcement isn’t about climbing the social ladder. It’s not about who gets promoted or who doesn’t. It’s about seeing justice served, it’s about rescuing people who are under our care. It’s about making a goddamn difference.”
She took a step toward him, her hands clenched into fists. “Please, just leave me alone now. Just get out before I open this stall and let Jet teach you about character.”
“You can’t—” Darrow blustered, taking an involuntary step back as Jet’s growl deepened, the sound vibrating through the floorboards. Blair’s hand moved to the heavy metal latch on the stall door. Her expression was deadly calm. “I have more?—”
She pulled the latch partway, the metallic clank echoing in the silence. Inside the stall, Jet reacted instantly. He didn't just press against the door but lunged, a fluid explosion of muscle and fury. His massive shoulder hit the wood with a thunderous crash, and the whole stall shuddered. He bared his teeth, letting out a high-pitched, terrifying squeal that was pure, unadulterated war, a promise of what he would do if given the chance.
Darrow’s face went white. He yelped, a short, undignified sound, and turned tail and ran, his retreat a clumsy, undignified scramble that ended with the barn door slamming shut behind him.
For a minute after he was gone, they just stood there, the only sound Jet’s heavy, snorting breaths as he settled back, his protective fury slowly receding. Then, a strange sound escaped Blair’s throat. It started as a snort, a short, sharp puff of air. Then it happened. Her shoulders began to shake, and she turned to Breakneck, her eyes wide with a wild, unhinged light. When she met his gaze, she burst into laughter.
It wasn't a sound of joy. It was the hysterical, slightly unhinged laugh of someone who had been pushed to the absolute limit and had snapped. It was loud and raw and beautiful all at once.
Breakneck knew what was going to happen next. He saw the tears welling in her eyes, saw the way the laughter was already dissolving into ragged gasps. He moved closer, his arms already opening.
He pulled her to his chest, folding her tight against him, just as her laughter turned into sobbing, gasping cries. She buried her face in his shoulder, her body wracked with the force of it. He just held her, crushing her to him as he let her cry, letting her pour out all the grief, the anger, and the exhaustion of a day that had cost them all so much. He was her anchor in the storm, the solid ground she could finally collapse onto, and he wouldn't let her go until she was ready to stand again.
Thirty minutes later, he’d taken her home, after he’d secured permission from Ice, the silence of the drive a balm to their frayed nerves. They had showered, the hot water a ritual of cleansing, washing away the day’s grime and blood, the scent of cordite and fear, had a light dinner, and were now lying in the quiet dark. The only sounds were the rustle of sheets and the steady, reassuring rhythm of their breathing.
She was facing him, her features softened by sleep and the lunar glow. The sight of her hit him with the force of a physical blow.
She reached out, her fingers gentle as they traced the bandage on his upper arm. “I could tell you’d been hit by the sound of your voice.” He opened his mouth. She interrupted, her voice compressed. “If you say it’s a flesh wound, in that disarming, deep, sexy voice, and then give me a cocky smile, I swear?—”
“It is just a flesh wound, and I’m cocky and in pain, but this isn’t that bad.” He ran his thumb along her bottom lip. “When you disappeared into the trees after Torres, I almost lost my mind.” She made a soft sound and moved closer. “I was a hairsbreadth away from landing the damn thing and going in after you.” He slid his fingertips over her cheek. “Ice wouldn’t let me. It was then that I realized you had this. You would get Torres.” He released a hard breath.
He didn't get to finish. She leaned in and kissed him, pulling him hard against her and sinking into him, and he realized exactly what intimacy was. It was baring your heart to someone, letting them see the flaws and the bumps, and the bruises, and the scars. It was about being authentic.
It was effortless with Blair, a kind of knowing down to his DNA that she would never look away from him, and trust had grown over the time he’d spent with her, a man who didn’t know how to do any of this, learning that he’d had the capacity all along.
He broke the kiss, the words spilling out of him. “I was scared for you…but more for me. I’m not used to being selfish when it comes to…this.” He closed his eyes. “You’re important to me, so important, but I respect you enough to allow you to do your job without a cocky operator thinking you’re some damsel in distress.”
She brushed his lips, breathing softly, whispering, “That’s the sexiest thing a man has ever said to me. Kiss me again, you cocky bastard.”
He huffed, part laugh, part aching growl as he took her mouth again, pouring everything he was feeling into it. The profound relief of having her here, safe, the gut-wrenching fear of almost losing her, and the terrifying, magnificent truth of this new, overwhelming emotion that had taken root in his soul. Her lips were soft, yielding, and she responded not with hungry passion, but with a sleepy sigh that was more intimate than any touch, her hand coming up to rest on his arm, a grounding weight that said, I'm here. I've got you.
He broke the kiss again, looking down into her face. The moonlight spilled through her bedroom window, a soft, silver wash that turned the familiar landscape of her room into something ethereal. It caught the edge of the dresser, glinted off the glass of water on the nightstand, and pooled on the floor, illuminating the tangled sheets around their naked bodies.
Love.
The word echoed in the cavernous space of his mind, a foreign concept that had suddenly, shockingly, taken up residence. He’d never associated it with himself. Ever. Love was for other people. For his teammates who found wives and had kids. For Hallmark heroes who learned a lesson just in time for a proposal. For the lucky rom-com bastards who always seemed to stumble into the right person.
Love was a liability. A complication. A target painted on the back of the person you cared about most. He was more than aware of the consequences. He knew the complications this feeling created, the logistical nightmares, the tactical vulnerabilities. He knew it made this relationship infinitely more difficult.
