Dylan moved. He flowed. A tactical dance of lethal motion and breathtaking precision. He shoved Blair flat to the floor, rolled beside her, then surged forward, weapon in hand. He fired three clean shots, then pivoted, kicked the fallen table up on its side, and used it as partial cover. Another burst of gunfire. Two bodies hit the ground in rapid succession.
Blair blinked through the haze of shock and adrenaline, her breathing ragged as she pushed herself halfway up?—
Dylan slammed into her again, knocking her down flat, his body covering hers completely as another hail of bullets ripped through the doorway.
She felt every inch of him.
Heat. Muscle. Power. His heartbeat slammed against her back. Then he was dragging her up, spinning her into the wall again, his arms around her. He fired again from over her shoulder. Another body dropped.
He was moving again as the gunfire raged outside the room, with even more automatic fire joining the fray. There was no time to think as he knocked her legs out from under her, and before she could catch her breath and brace for a hard fall, he was there easing her down, his muscles rippling and flexing across his chest and shoulders.
He pushed her flat onto her back, partially covered her. The guy was caught completely off guard, firing into the room with the expectation of taking out upright bodies. Once the enemy’s burst was over, Dylan rolled onto his back, lifted himself into a half sit-up, his abs hard, bisected muscle, his broad shoulders and biceps flexing and bulging, and fired another three shots into the attacker.
8
Charles Carroll House, Annapolis Marine Life Gallery Fundraiser, Annapolis, Maryland
Standing here, watching him beneath the lantern light, the river breathing steadily behind him, the future pressing closer with every passing minute, she understood what speaking would do. It would alter the shape of everything they’d built. It would fracture the careful balance of their trio. It might cost her Fly. It might cost her Than. It would certainly cost her the safety of pretending.
But not speaking would cost him more. She was fully aware that whatever came next would be irreversible.
What she felt for him couldn’t be contained. She couldn’t restrain it. She couldn’t let him go, and just like that, she was back at the beginning.
Plebe Summer orientation had been chaos in pressed whites, paperwork, schedules, shouted orders ricocheting across Tecumseh Court, a sea of nervous eighteen-year-olds trying desperately to look like they knew what they were doing.
Mei-Lin Harada hadn’t.
Her arms had been full of orientation folders, maps, and briefing sheets. She’d been trying to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear when someone bumped into her from behind.
Her papers had exploded like startled birds.
“Whoa…sorry!” a deep voice said.
She’d crouched immediately, mortified, muttering, “Look where you’re going, would you—?” before looking up, and freezing.
Stunning had been the word that hit her first. The person who had collided with her was tall. Not just tall but monolithic. Broad-shouldered, solid, with deep-brown eyes that held quiet apology and something steadier beneath. Native American, she’d thought instantly. Those cheekbones didn’t lie.
He’d knelt beside her without hesitation, gathering her scattered papers with hands that were far too gentle for someone his size.
“Sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I didn’t see you.”
“You…uh…you really didn’t,” she’d managed, her voice cracking. She’d wanted the ground to swallow her whole.
Then he’d given her a tiny half-smile.
Her lungs had stopped working.
Another presence had joined them a second later, all easy movement and bright energy.
“You okay?” he’d asked, handing her a map. “Did Than almost take you out before you even started on this crazy path?”
His ocean-blue eyes had been sharp and clever, already assessing everything around him like leadership came built in. Red hair, rusty copper in the sun, a grin like a sunrise paired with an Australian-Texan accent that should not have worked but absolutely did.
She’d nodded mutely.
“I’m Flynn Gallagher,” he’d said, cheerful and warm. “This is Than… Nathaniel Locklear—” He’d jerked his thumb toward the silently apologetic giant. “He’s a menace.”
Than had shot him a look that promised future violence.
