Breakneck had retreated behind a makeshift changing alcove, nothing more than a curtained-off corner beside the equipment racks, yet Blair could feel him through the fabric. His quiet movements, the rustle of gear, the uneven catch of his breath when a bruise pulled wrong. He had refused medical downtime. He had refused to hesitate. He had walked in here with the same focus she had seen when he stepped into gunfire for her, a kind of stripped-down purpose that slid under her skin and settled there.
He pushed the curtain aside a moment later. His shirt was already on, dark and clinging to muscle and heat, the fabric stretched across swollen ribs and mottled bruises. The vest waited on the bench beside him, heavy with ceramic plates and tactical pockets. Breakneck’s face was pale beneath the bruising, but his eyes were sharp.
He reached for the vest. His hand shook once, just a tremor, almost invisible.
She stepped forward before he could hide it.
“Are you sure about this?” Her voice came out quieter than she intended, rough with something she didn’t want to name.
“There’s no way I’m standing down while I’m breathing.” His gaze locked on hers. “Now, with you and your people in the mix, I’m going. This is what I do. Overwatch, protection, stone-cold precision.”
He tried to swing the vest up, but his ribs tightened, and the motion stalled. Pride kept him silent. She moved in close, fingers brushing his as she took the vest from his hands. He released it without protest, which somehow struck her harder than if he had fought her for it.
She lifted the vest and positioned it over his head, pressed it against his chest. The proximity hit her low in the belly. His breath warmed her cheek. His scent, clean sweat, worn cotton, heat, and the faint metallic trace of blood scrubbed but not forgotten, sent a shiver racing down her spine.
Her fingers worked the Velcro panels with steady precision, tightening, threading, locking the buckles. He stood motionless beneath her touch, muscles taut, breath measured like he was forcing stillness into his body one controlled inch at a time. His jaw flexed every time she cinched a strap over a bruise. He didn’t make a sound.
She stepped behind him to pull the side strap through. His back was a sculpted wall of muscle under the thin shirt, skin hot with exertion. A bruising slash of violence marked his neckline, and anger streaked through her again, fierce and sharp.
“You should be icing these, not gearing up to take fire,” she murmured.
“Ice can wait. This can’t.”
She moved around him again, adjusting the front buckles, ensuring the plates sat flush. Their faces were inches apart. His eyes tracked every movement of her hands, slow drags of storm gray that heated her skin wherever his gaze touched.
She finished the last strap and stepped back. The loss of proximity felt wrong.
He caught her upper arm before she could turn away. His grip was warm, strong, careful in a way that told her he knew exactly where she was bruised from the firefight, exactly how much pressure she could take.
“You won’t see me,” he said, voice low and rough, the kind of whisper that dragged straight down her spine. “No one ever does. But, Sergeant, I don’t miss.”
Her breath caught, snagged on the way he said sergeant, rich with respect and something darker beneath it. His gaze held her captive for a suspended beat that felt like the crackle before a wildfire catches.
“You are in my sights,” he murmured. “I have you covered.”
Blair’s pulse kicked hard. The room felt suddenly too small, too warm, too charged with invisible threads binding them in ways she didn’t understand. Breakneck released her slowly, reluctantly, like his hand had to be pried from her skin by sheer willpower.
She inhaled once, sharply, fighting the tremor that wanted to give her away.
He stood before her fully geared, wounded, unstoppable, dangerous, and yet the most steadying presence she had ever felt.
A man she didn’t know strode in, crisp, composed, the kind of calm that carried rank without ever raising a voice. Behind him was one of their own, Constable Jacqueline Robinson, part of the Federal Operations Center. She would coordinate between Ottawa and the US contingent.
“Jackie,” she said warmly. “Great to see you here. It’s quite an operation.” Ayla was already speaking to the tall, distinguished American with bars on his shoulders.
Jackie smiled and nodded. “Yes. The Americans are always an exciting bunch.” She glanced over at the gathered SEALs, standing near the big conference table. “Intimidating, aren’t they?”
“Special Forces always stand out,” Blair said, working at keeping her voice even.
Jackie eyed them again with appreciation. “Not hard on the eyes. That’s for sure, eh?”
Blair chuckled, her eyes going to Breakneck. “No, not at all.”
Ayla walked over and said, “Sergeant Brown, this is Lieutenant Commander Thomas Lindstrom.”
“Sorry for the tactical Yankee invasion of your impressive WILD base, and please. It’s Tom.”
She smiled. “Blair. It has been a whirlwind. That’s for sure. We apologize for arresting and detaining your undercover. That was a mix-up in the chain of command, I’m afraid.”
