I'm not in London anymore.
I'm on my last mission in Mali, supporting the British peace-keeping forces. I’m in a safe house. On the third floor. The windows are barred. The door is supposedly secure.
Supposedly.
There are footsteps in the corridor outside. Soft. Deliberate. The kind of footsteps that mean someone's bypassed the lookout. Disabled the locks. Come to finish what the firefight earlier couldn't.
My breathing goes shallow. Silent. Every sense sharpens to a razor's edge.
The footsteps get closer. Closer. They're in the room with me. I can hear breathing now. Soft. Controlled.
Just like that night. Just like the enemy creeping through the darkness, knife in hand, thinking I was asleep, thinking he could?—
The memory slams into me. The moment I woke up to steel against my throat. The half-second between sleep and survival that nearly cost me everything.
I didn't hesitate then. I can't hesitate now. A hand touches my shoulder. My body moves before my brain catches up.
Years of training. Muscle memory forged in sand and blood and situations where hesitation meant death. Where the enemy comes in soft and quiet, and if you don't react fast enough, you don't react at all.
I surge up.
Fingers curl around a throat. It’s slender and warm. I'm moving, twisting, using momentum and weight to flip the body onto the bed beneath me.
37
Harper
"Stop, James. It’s m…me.” I try to breathe, but my lungs burn.
His fingers tighten around my throat.
Panic flashes through my chest. My mind goes white. And yet, below that is a zing of something deep inside. It confuses me. I push it aside, manage to choke out, “James… It…it’s Harper.”
His jaw is so hard, he could slam through a wall with his chin.
I thought he was emotionless previously, but it’s nothing compared to the almost robotic set of his features.
My stomach drops. My pulse races. The constriction in my throat tightens. Panic grips me.
“James,” I wheeze.
But he doesn’t hear me.
His eyes. Oh God, his eyes. They’re almost colorless. Like ice chips. They're not seeing me. He's somewhere else. Someone else.
It’s as if he’s locked away every ounce of humanity and changed himself into a lethal machine. A weapon. Something that could kill me without blinking.
Is this the zone he had to find when he was on a mission?
Is this why he became emotionless in real life? Because to show his true self is to share his vulnerabilities.
His failings.
And there’s no space for that when it’s a life and death scenario. One mistake, and your life and those of your team are at stake.
He left the Marines, but he hasn’t gotten rid of that iron control.
It’s ingrained so deeply into him that it’s the only thing that feels familiar to him. It must be why he put the 'no emotions' clause in our contract. To protect himself.
