Six feet up a leadwood tree, my grip on the branch above me was so tight I could feel the individual grains of wood pressing into my skin. My heart thudded against my ribs like it wanted out first.
A glance down confirmed the situation had not improved.
Nick was standing exactly where he had been. He hadn't moved a muscle. He was looking up at me, his stupid face a mask of neutral observation that was rapidly beginning to crack.
Refusing to acknowledge the sudden, cooling rush of adrenaline, I stared at him from my increasingly precarious limb like a spooked raccoon with excellent posture.
“I assume you have a plan,” I said. My voice was icy, despite the fact that I was clinging to a tree.
Nick’s mouth twitched. A small, involuntary motion. He looked away, eyes dropping to his boots, but it was too late. The twitch became a slow, creeping grin that he couldn't quite suppress.
“That depends,” he said, his voice thick with suppressed amusement. “Are you planning to come down on your own, or should I file a retrieval request with the camp?”
I adjusted my grip on the branch. Bark bit into my palm.
“For the record,” he added, “that was not a near-death experience.”
“It had tusks.”
“So does half the reserve.”
“This was an emergency altitude adjustment,” I said, shifting my grip. My palms were stinging. “The brush was obstructed. I required a superior vantage point to evaluate the perimeter.”
“Right. Altitude adjustment.” He looked back up at me, his eyes bright. It was the first time I’d seen him actually lose his professional composure while on duty, and it was infuriatingly attractive. “And what does the vantage point tell you, Wilder?”
“That you’re enjoying this far too much.”
Finding a way down without breaking a radius required a level of grace the tree had clearly chosen not to provide. My boot slipped, the angle of the knot failing me.
Not a fall. More of a negotiation with gravity. My center of gravity tipped backward.
Nick was there instantly. He moved into the space beneath the limb, his hands reaching up.
“Drop,” he commanded.
It wasn't a request. I let go, falling into the heat of him.
His hands clamped around my waist, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt. He caught my weight with a grunt, his boots bracing against the red dirt. For a second, I was suspended, my chest inches from his, the scent of woodsmoke and mint filling my lungs.
His grip was firm. Controlled. He didn't let go. He held me there, close enough that my hands had nowhere to go but him. I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubble on his jaw, the way his breath was hitching just as much as mine.
I landed, my boots hitting the dirt. He didn’t pull his hands away. They stayed on my hips, a heavy, familiar weight that made my skin hum.
His grip tightened—just enough to turn me—and his gaze dropped. I felt it before I followed it.
The climb had hiked my shirt up, exposing the small of my back. He was staring at the ink. The black, intricate tail of the dragon coiled over my spine, a secret I usually kept under layers of Italian linen.
He went still. The smile vanished, replaced by the look of curiosity. If he’d caught a glimpse of it when we were together, he’d never acknowledged it. But here, in the uncompromising glare of the midday sun, the details were impossible to ignore. He didn't look surprised, which was worse. He looked like a man who had finally found the piece of the puzzle that made the rest of the picture make sense.
“Dragon,” he said.
I snapped my shirt down. The fabric clicking back into place, masking the sudden spike in my pulse. “Don’t hurt yourself, Mercer. I can see the gears grinding from here.”
“I’m a tracker, Juliette.” He stepped back, but his eyes stayed narrow, scanning me like a fresh set of prints. “Everything is a trail. A mark like that on a woman who lives in silk and luxury? That’s not a fashion choice. That’s a history.”
I started walking back toward the tents, keeping my pace steady. “Is that your professional hypothesis?”
“My hypothesis is that you’ve got a side to you that doesn't involve business or law,” he said, falling into step beside me. “Something private. Maybe something a little law-less.”
