Drew was all fire and fury. Guns-blazing, in-your-face justice. And that was exactly what made her so damn good—and exactly what made her so damn hard to be with. He remembered the long nights of worrying. Of sitting on his cot, waiting for herto check in after taking down a skip in some godforsaken hole. The adrenaline, the relief, the fear.
He was aware of the irony of the situation, as well. He’d been a Navy SEAL. She had to feel the same about him when he disappeared on a top-secret op. Except, she’d never said a word about it. Not once. It was as if it didn’t faze her at all. The difference was that the idea of her being in danger had eaten him alive. That’s why he left.
He hadn’t told her then, but the op he’d been heading out on—black level, no extraction plan, no backup—he’d had a bad feeling. And for once, he listened to his gut. Told himself if things went sideways, she’d be safer without him. And they had gone seriously sideways. His whole team had to fake their deaths to avoid a blowback that would have taken out not just their families, but their entire handler network. If she’d been tied to him? She would’ve been on the kill list.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the bounty sooner?” he asked.
Drew shrugged. “You were busy throwing me on the floor and barking orders. Figured I’d wait till you were properly hydrated.”
He gave a small huff of amusement. “Thanks for that.”
“You would’ve done the same.”
He didn’t argue, since she wasn’t wrong.
“You gonna tell me the rest of the story?” she asked. “The real reason Tessa is so important?”
Cross shook his head. “The less you know the better.”
She snorted and then asked. “Do you regret it?”
He looked at her. “What?” Was she talking about them? Did he regret breaking up with her? Every damn fucking day, but he clung to the idea as if it was for the best.
“Saving her. Tessa.”
He hesitated. “No. Never.”
She looked away, hiding something in the motion. Maybe jealousy. Maybe understanding. Then she looked back at him, their gazes locking. And for a second, the rest of it—the Weasel, Rodriguez, the damn bounty—it all disappeared. Just her. Him. The unresolved ache that still sat between them like an open wound.
A splash echoed near the shore. Drew jumped, spilling a little tea. She stood and peered through the window. “That better be a fish.”
Cross joined her, narrowing his eyes.
A gator slid silently into the shallows, yellow eyes catching the light. “Gator,” he muttered.
“Of course it is.”
She stepped back from the window and slapped her arm. “Mosquitoes are back.”
He opened a drawer, pulled out a bottle of ancient bug spray, and tossed it to her. “Vintage. Circa the last apocalypse. You washed the other stuff off.”
She sprayed liberally, still scowling. “I’m sleeping in the boat.”
“Like hell you are.”
She shot him a look. “Try and stop me.” And there she was again—brash, fierce, impossible. God help him, it was one of the reasons he’d fallen so hard for her.
He watched her curl up on the bench, her mug resting on her chest. She would tough it out there all night, being eaten alive, rather than sleep inside on the small cot with him. That stung. Still, he wasn’t going to let that happen. He wanted her beside him so he knew she was safe.
“Watch out for the snakes.”
“What?” she sat bolt upright, sloshing her tea.
“Cottonmouths, AKA pit vipers, and copperheads. Both love the bayou.”
“Shit,” she said, scurrying back out of the boat. “I fucking hate this place.” She stormed back into the cabin. Cross’s gut unknotted just a little. Now he could keep a closer eye on her. He’d pulled her into this mess, regardless of how inadvertently. Now it was up to him to get her out of it.
CHAPTER 8
