And alone. Still. With his thoughts. Which, right now, was the last place he wanted to be.
Ayla stood outside of Malcolm’s cabin three weeks later, the cool mountain air smelling of pine and damp earth, fresh from seeing her family, then a quick trip to Bonita and Bear. There she’d hugged her brother and his friend Fly. It felt good to see them, and she was shocked at how much her brother had changed…matured.
Just like Sleeping Wind, this place was beautiful, peaceful, the kind of quiet that made the noise in her own head seem louder. Exhausted and emotionally wrung out, she’d had no choice but to board that C-130 and go home, leaving everything with him unfinished. She should have called. A sane person would have called. But she didn’t want to give him the chance to say forget about it or no. She’d been so caught up in the fallout with Carver and Jones, with Breakneck’s recovery and Iceman’s surgery, that their planned dinner had been wiped away, another casualty in a mission that kept taking long after it was over.
This was crazy. Chasing a man across two countries, showing up on his doorstep unannounced. It was the kind of impulsive, reckless thing she’d always prided herself on avoiding. But she knew how it felt to be left behind, to think you’d been abandoned or rejected. She knew that sharp, hollow ache from her own mess-up with Breakneck, her mistake. She couldn’t let Malcolm feel that. Not for her. It was just important for her to let him know that he hadn't been a convenience or a mission footnote. He was more than that.
She clutched the wine bottle in her hand, the glass cool and solid against her trembling fingers, a small anchor in the sea of her own anxiety. She took a breath that smelled of woodsmoke and wilderness and knocked on his door. The sound echoed in the stillness, a sharp, definitive rap.
The door swung open, and Malcolm stood there looking delectable and still as sweet as hell, wearing a worn Henley and a soft, surprised smile. “Ayla? Ayla! What?—”
“I know. It’s unexpected. I hope you like that.” She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat, then the aroma hit her, a rich, savory scent of garlic and herbs and roasting meat that made her stomach clench with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. “Ancestors, that smells good. I hope you have enough for two.”
She presented the bottle of wine like a peace offering, and he took it, his fingers brushing hers. He set it on a rustic table just inside the entrance, his eyes never leaving hers.
“I just didn’t want you to think that dinner wasn’t important to me,” she said, the words tumbling out, more vulnerable than she intended.
He chuckled, a low, warm sound that seemed to wrap around her. “Get in here,” he said, reaching out, pulling her against him, and her butterflies just multiplied, a chaotic swarm of wings in her chest. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her firmly against him, the solid warmth of his body a welcome anchor. “Unexpected is okay, but what I like is you. Honey, this is a hell of a long way to come for dinner.”
She breathed him in, the clean, masculine scent of him mixed with the promise of the meal and looked up into his eyes. She melted, leaning in and kissing him, a soft, enthusiastic press of her lips that was a question and an answer all at once. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape.
He made a soft, wholly approving male sound and deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing her lips, seeking entrance. He kicked the door closed with a soft thud, the sound sealing them in the warm, cozy cabin, shutting out the world and the miles she’d traveled. She was breathless when he finally pulled away, his forehead resting against hers.
“I didn’t just come here for food,” she whispered.
“Who gives a damn about food,” he murmured, his voice a husky rasp against her lips, and pulled her toward his bedroom.
The air in the cabin was crisp, carrying the clean, earthy scent of pine and the faint, sweet perfume of woodsmoke from the fireplace. It was a stark contrast to the heat they generated under the thick wool blanket, the crackle of the flames the only sound in the quiet woods. The world felt pared down to this. The firm press of Malcolm’s chest against her back, the weight of his arm anchored around her waist, and the scent of him, clean, male, and as real as the solid log walls surrounding them.
Ayla shifted, turning in his embrace to face him. In the dim moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains of the room, his face was a landscape of shadows and soft light. She trailed her fingers along the broad, solid slope of his shoulder, feeling the latent strength there, a strength that had been a shield for so long. "How is it you're still single?" she murmured, the words a soft puff of air against his skin.
He smiled, and in the gloom, the deep pools of his eyes seemed to hold the night sky. He didn't answer, not with words. Instead, he trailed a single finger down her arm, a slow, deliberate path that traced the curve of her breast, the dip of her waist, and the flare of her hip. His hand settled there, warm and big, gripping her firmly and drawing her flush against him. The physical certainty of him was a balm, a quiet anchor in her own storm-tossed life.
"I was pining after Blair for years," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "Hoping she'd come around. Then I saw her looking at Kelly Gatlin on Talon, and I knew that whatever I wanted with her was already gone. She was gone for him." He paused, his thumb stroking circles on her hip. "I settled with that and a bottle of whiskey, then I took off the blinders, and you know what I saw?"
She traced the strong line of his jaw, feeling the faint rasp of stubble. She shook her head, her own breath catching slightly.
"Eh. I saw you, Ayla," he continued, his tone shifting, softening with a reverence that made her chest ache. "Brilliant. A tactical hunter with steel instincts, and you know what else?"
She shook her head again, lost in the intensity of his gaze.
"Beauty. I found beauty, not just in your face or this body." He gave her a gentle shake, his hand a brand of warmth on her hip. "The kind of soul men like me only get to glimpse once or twice in a lifetime. How's that for growth?"
A raw, honest emotion welled up in her, thick and bittersweet. She sighed, a sound of pure surrender, and pressed herself against him, molding her body to his. "You know what I see?"
It was his turn to shake his head, a lock of his flaxen hair slipping over his forehead, making him look younger, almost vulnerable.
"I see a man who will find that kind of soul in a permanent woman who will see him for exactly who he is."
She moved closer, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was a deep, poignant understanding. She ran her hands through all that thick hair, soft as silk. "I'm sad it won't be me," she whispered against his lips. "I've got a different path to walk, and it rules me hard, but this...with you...is something I won't forget."
His response was immediate, a shift from tender to primal. He rolled her beneath him, his weight a welcome pressure, and she gave into the physical with him, meeting him in each thrust that took her breath away. It wasn't just fucking. It was a conversation, a final, beautiful affirmation. Safe wasn't so bad, she thought, as her hips arched to meet his. It was warm and solid and real. But damn if she didn't still crave that edge, the sharp, thrilling danger of a man who was trouble wrapped up in muscle and chaos, a man who radiated a heat that promised to burn her, and a madness that made her feel alive. As she clung to Malcolm, a man who had found his own reconciliation, she knew with a clarity that was both heartbreaking and freeing that she was choosing her beautiful, chaotic war over his beautiful, hard-won peace.
48
He stood on the walkway in front of his mother’s house longer than he needed to. The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of cut grass and the distant, sweet smell of a neighbor’s lilacs. A single porch light cast a weak, yellow glow on the flagstone path, the light inside the house warm and unwavering. He hadn’t been back since the night everything cracked open, since the truth about Derrick had been dragged into the light and left there between them, ugly and unfinished.
Back then, it had nearly destroyed him. Now it barely registered. Derrick might have been there when he was conceived, but his father was Edward Gatlin. That truth was settled. Nothing about genetics would ever touch it.
