I close my eyes.
For the first time in twelve days, I’m safe.
Chapter Six
Jonus
Sloane slept against my shoulder for the rest of the helicopter ride out of the jungle, her hand, with scratches and dirt caked under her nails, is wrapped around mine.
My female is filthy and bruised, and she smells like the twelve days spent in a pit. Not that I’ve mentioned this to her. The team and I have all done our best to ignore the extent of her appearance. But I suspect they all feel as I do—flaming rage at the idea of her being so badly mistreated.
Since the moment I received that call from the State Department, I’ve known what I feel for Sloane Adams isn’t simply friendship. Why else would I put together a private extraction team and show up myself to pull her from the pit?
I stare again at her hand in mine. My cock stirs slightly and I shift, trying to ignore it. This is not the time. She’s injured, traumatized and exhausted. The last thing she needs at this moment are my advances. But I can’t help but wonder if Sloane would ever consider taking on an orc as her husband.
I was always the Irontree who joked about being immune to the mating pull and the one who handles situations with words, not instinct. But I don’t feel smooth right now, able to talk my way out of these feelings for Sloane. I feel raw and uncertain. Like something fundamental has shifted and I don’t know the rules anymore.
Mine.
I rub my thumb over her hand. The mission is complete and Sloane Adams has a life to go back to — a job in DC, friends, family. A world that doesn’t include a seven-foot-tall green orc who’s never even met her in person before tonight.
What right do I have to ask her to stay?
And yet the thought of her flying back to DC alone makes something in my chest clench so hard I can barely breathe. I need to be with her. The realization settles over me like a heavy weight. Something deep and instinctual that has nothing to do with logic.
But what does she want?
Does Sloane even need me anymore, now that she’s safe?
The helicopter begins its descent, and my female stirs against my shoulder. “We’re landing,” I tell her through my headset, keeping my voice low. “Private airfield. We’re switching to a plane.”
She nods groggily, her fingers tightening around mine.
The helicopter touches down on a small private strip somewhere in the Colombian coffee country, far from Bogotá and its questions. No customs, officials or paperwork. Just a single runway carved out of the green hills, a small hangar, and a charter plane waiting on the tarmac with its engines already warming up.
Kelt arranged everything. He’s good at this kind of thing.
The rotors slow and Kelt slides the door open. Humid morning air rushes in, heavy with the smell of wet earth and coffee plants. The sky is pale gray, just past dawn.
“Plane’s fueled and ready,” Kelt announces, pulling off his headset. “Pilot says we can be wheels up in ten.”
Cole and Martinez are already moving, grabbing gear bags and weapons cases from the helicopter’s cargo area. They work with the efficiency of men who’ve done this a hundred times before.
“How’s she doing?” Cole asks, nodding toward Sloane.
“She’s tough,” I say. “But she needs real medical care. Soon.”
“We’ll be outside of Sacramento in about eight hours,” Martinez offers. He’s got a cut above his eye that’s still bleeding sluggishly, a souvenir from the firefight. “Then we’ll get her to a hospital asap.”
I lift my chin in response.
Aldar is on his tablet already, probably updating someone stateside. Lucy, most likely. He hasn’t stopped coordinating with her since this whole thing started.
I remove my headset and help Sloane with hers. “Ready to move? I’m going to carry you to the plane.”
She looks out at the small runway, the unmarked aircraft, the pre-dawn sky. Takes it all in. “We’re not going through Bogotá?”
“No, it’s too public with too many questions.” I move my arms under her. “A charter takes us straight out of Colombia without anyone asking why a team of orcs and ex-SEALs are carrying an American journalist onto a plane.”
