Chapter 21 #2
No, what hit Blair was the ease in him. The way the weight seemed gone. The way the man who had kissed her like he was splitting open hadn’t rebuilt the walls. He looked untouched by what had happened.
For one tight, unwelcome heartbeat, her past rose like a shadow behind her.
Matthew Darrow.
His gentle voice.
His careful praise.
His manipulations disguised as support. His warmth that had felt so real, until she discovered it was calculated.
The way he’d made her believe she was seen, understood, valued…then, right after, he showed her she’d been a fool to trust any of it.
A flicker of the same shame prickled at the edge of her chest now. She inhaled slowly, forcing the air to settle her.
This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t the same. Breakneck wasn’t Darrow. There was no comparison. He was allowed to talk to Ayla. Allowed to decompress. Allowed to laugh with someone who wasn’t her.
Her reaction was hers alone, old scars tugging at fresh skin.
She reminded herself of that firmly.
Still, she stepped back into the doorway before either of them noticed her, pressing her spine to the frame, closing her eyes for a moment as she wrestled with the quiet ache tightening under her sternum.
It was clear to her he was a man of substance. No shallow asshole put himself between an RPG and safety. Her perception of him was sound. What was an unknown was his own personal story. What fear kept him from her. Why had he said she shouldn’t want him? Why was he warning her?
She wasn’t a fool. She understood how terrifying it was to open up to another human being, one that could gut you.
God. She knew from firsthand experience, and she’d been hurt.
So, so devastated. But she would like to think it wasn’t beyond repair because big risks often yielded big rewards.
Yet Kelly wasn’t a reward…he was a dangerously wrapped time bomb of a gift she wanted to handle, not with kid gloves.
He was much too strong and powerful for that.
But with understanding and compassion, just as she wanted to be handled in the same way.
He hadn’t told her who he was. He had shown her, and that picture wasn’t wiped away because her doubts were plaguing her. She wouldn’t be human if they weren’t.
But it was how she handled them that was the kicker.
Didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid. Didn’t mean that she would try to find a place to be safe. Didn’t mean that she wouldn’t fight.
It meant that Breakneck was showing her that he was worth it. Blair vowed to be true to herself, no matter her faults. She had to be, gather that courage and forge ahead like she did with everything else.
She’d believed the sincerity in his eyes, that ache that had reached out and gripped her heart. Believed the steadiness in his voice. Believed the heat behind his kiss wasn’t some adrenaline-fueled impulse.
She didn’t think she’d misread him. But that small, cold fear whispered anyway. The one Darrow had carved into her years ago. The one that warned her she could be wrong again.
She wasn’t falling apart. She wasn’t jealous, that was for high schoolers and people who were insecure. She wasn’t angry. She was cautious. Self-preserving.
Human.
Blair slipped away down the hall, quiet as a shadow, the ache settling low in her chest, an ache that didn’t accuse Breakneck at all, only reminded her how much she’d risked letting herself believe any of it.
Caution was the watchword, until she was…what? Sure about him?
How could anyone be sure about anything when it came to baring their heart?
She was no different.
The echo of his pulse chased her down the hall, still beating in her memory, and the aching feel of his warm, mottled skin, the bruises, like a fucking badge of courage.
The barn had settled into the kind of early morning bustle she loved. Horses shifting in their stalls. The soft clink of metal from a chain tugged once, then stilled. The low, steady sound of Jet Relevé stomping against his crossties, like a dragon she trusted more than most men.
Blair stood by his side, one hand resting on the smooth, warm arch of his neck as he surveyed the barn, eyes bright and aware with intelligence.
The big black gelding flicked an ear when she scratched the familiar spot behind it, the one he allowed only from her.
The scent of hay and leather, liniment and horse sweat, grounded her, soothing what the last few days had stirred up.
She had spent some time on the phone this morning with Chief Superintendent Lucas Desjardins.
Darrow had done some blustering and complaining, and Darrow’s fiancé’s daddy, Henri Charpentier, Deputy Minister of Public Safety, had a hand in that stern phone call.
But when she’d outlined what had happened, that sternness turned into support, and praise with a strong order to continue to run the whole operation while Darrow took a back seat and continued with WILD’s daily functioning.
She breathed a sigh of relief that Marques was in a safe house with his family, battered and bruised but thankfully alive.
As for Marques's boss, Leo Tremblay, he and his family were also safe due to the arrival of Preacher, GQ, Hazard and Tyler. The cartel had taken a beating from them, but she knew this wasn’t over.
Certainly not from the RCMP’s point of view.
She heard the barn door open before she saw who it was.
Voices carried in first, easy and masculine, punctuated by the scrape of boots on packed earth.
“Yeah, you’re not putting my ass on that one,” Skull said. “I like my spine where it is.”
Hazard laughed, low and amused. “That’s ’cause you don’t know how to ride anything that doesn’t have four wheels and too much horsepower.”
“Or a bad attitude,” Boomer added.
Blair glanced over her shoulder.
The SEALs filled the center aisle like they effortlessly owned the space, dressed and ready to ride in their functional gear.
Ice was farther down, talking with Tyler and Beef near the tack room, going over search grids to find the absent cartel.
Kodiak and GQ stood near the empty stalls reserved for spare mounts, both men assessing the available horses with the instinctive eye of people who knew what they were looking at.
Skull was hovering at a safe distance from Jet, which made her mouth twitch despite herself.
Then Breakneck stepped in, and the barn seemed to recalibrate around him. It felt as if she did, too.
Her eyes went over him slow, easy, and tight. The sight of him landed like a physical blow, a silent rush of heat blooming low in Blair’s belly and spreading through her veins like warm honey.
He didn’t crowd the aisle the way some men did.
He simply…entered, his presence settling in like a weight, calm and contained.
He moved slower than the others in that measured, efficient way she’d noticed in the conference room and in the firefight.
The kind of lethal grace he’d been honing for most of his life.
Her breath sucked in, her mind stalling, time stretching the way it had during the RPG attack.
There was danger in that moment, with her and the team hovering between life and death, and without Breakneck’s split-second precision, she wouldn’t be standing here now, watching him like this.
He’d neutralized that strike without hesitation.
Here, there was no such release, and God help her, she didn’t want one.
This man was a straight-up threat, wrapped in mouth-watering, body-hugging gear.
The second-skin shirt fit like it had been built for him, dark and unobtrusive, mapping muscle and movement in hard, delineated planes.
The riding pants left very little to the imagination, clinging to the solid muscle of his thighs and ass, highlighting strength and the promise of controlled energy coiled beneath the fabric.
Her gaze lingered there, tracing the taut lines before moving to the narrow, encased waist and the broad expanse of his chest. The material stretched across his shoulders, emphasizing their width and the rigid, capable line of his spine.
Then her eyes dropped to his feet.
A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips, the sound barely audible in the charged air between them, thickening, growing heavy and warm, pressing against her skin.
She reached for Jet’s back, fingers sinking into his coat, grip tightening as her knees went unsteady.
Jet shifted closer, lending her his strength. She needed it.
Boots.
Holy fuck.
Sinful black. Nearly knee-high. Worn, broken-in leather polished to a dark sheen a tad below his knees. The Navy boys knew polish. The laces were pulled tight and disciplined, the buckle at the top a bold slash of metal, unapologetic in its intent.
They were heavy, built to anchor, to brace, to take force and give it back.
She felt the weight of them in her own body, imagined that mass settling close, steady and unyielding.
The way the soles met the packed earth told his story about control, leverage, purpose.
Her pulse kicked, sharp and traitorous, heat sliding low before she could stop it.
Edgy. Confident. A detail that made her want to reach out, feel the cool steel beneath her fingertips, know what it would be like to be held steady by someone whose certainty came from within, not from approval.
She dragged her gaze up, jaw tightening as a hunger she’d never known settled somewhere deep and unruly. The image clung, the laces, the buckle, the promise of weight, and her breath refused to fully steady.
They hadn’t spoken since the gear room. The memory of it was a brand on her senses.
The sensual trap of his body caging her, the shocking heat of his mouth claiming hers, the possessive weight of his hands on her skin, branding her through the thin cotton of her shirt.
And now, he stood here, a predator in sleek black, and the only thing more powerful than the memory was the palpable force of his restraint.