Page 74 of Reckless

It’s terrifying.

Not because he is panicking.

Because he isn’t.

There is no hesitation.

No frantic movements.

No shouting.

Just absolute, undeniable control.

Like somewhere inside him there’s a place built for moments exactly like this, and the second the first bullet flew, he stepped into it without a second thought.

I bury my face against his back for half a heartbeat, my fingers clinging to him with everything I have as another bullet cracks somewhere behind us.

The leather beneath my gloves is warm and solid beneath my grip.

Real.

He is real.

He is here.

And with every mile we put between ourselves and that SUV, one thought pounds through my head louder than the engines—he is risking everything to get me home.

My forehead presses harder between his shoulder blades as another burst of gunfire tears across the highway.

Please… I don’t even know who I’m praying to. Just, please don’t let anything happen to Ghost.

The realization hits me almost as hard as the gunfire.

I am not praying for me.

I am praying for him.

The bikes slow one by one, engines dying as we bunch up on the shoulder. Dust settles over hot asphalt and hotter metal. The desert sits around us, like nothing at all just happened.

My hands are shaking against Ghost’s jacket, and I don’t dare let go.

He parks and doesn’t move right away. I can feel him doing exactly what I’m doing, taking stock, breathing, counting what’s still standing. Then he reaches down and covers both my hands with one of his, holding them there against his chest for a long moment. “You okay?”

I’m not.

Not entirely, but I’ve already decided I am not going to say that out loud.

“Yeah.” It comes out steadier than I have any right to expect.

Ghost slides off the bike and helps me down, but instead of letting go, he catches my forearm, his eyes dropping straight to the streak of blood on my sleeve. His fingers carefully push the torn fabric aside, checking the angry graze running along my upper arm.

His jaw tightens, and for one long moment, he just looks at it. Then his hand leaves my arm and comes up to cup my face. His palm is warm against my cheek, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that steals every other sound from the world, looking for shock, pain, or anything he might have missed.

When he finds whatever he needed to find, the tension in his shoulders eases by the smallest fraction. A breath leaves him, like he’d been holding it since the first shot was fired. His thumb brushes once across my cheek. “You with me?”

I nod. “I’m okay.”

His forehead almost dips toward mine before he catches himself, his hand lingering one second longer. “Good.” The word is quiet, rough, more exhale than word. Then the moment is gone, and his hand falls away, his attention snapping back to the shoulder where Mace disappeared. “Stay with Bear.”