Chapter 39 #3
They stayed like that for a long moment, pinned against the wall, their bodies slick with sweat and trembling in the aftermath.
The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against her chest. He slowly lowered her to her feet, his arms still wrapped around her, holding her up as her legs felt like jelly.
He rested his chin on the top of her head, and she closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing, feeling the solid, real presence of him.
Her voice shuddered out. “I need to get into the shower, but I don’t think I can walk.”
Without a word, Breakneck moved, fluid, coiled.
His arm moved to her back and his hips sidestepped her like it was a tactical move.
He slipped his arms under her knees and in a powerful, lithe move, he lifted her, cradling her against his chest. “Just hang on to me until you feel strong enough to let go.”
“What if I never feel that strong?”
His eyes softened, his voice went wispy and aching. “Then hold on to me forever, babe.”
Later, as Blair stood under the spray of the shower longer than necessary, letting the hot water pound against her shoulders until her skin prickled, she tried to catch her breath. It didn’t settle her. It didn’t quiet anything. If anything, it made the noise louder.
Breakneck was more than she’d thought. Fundamental. The way he listened. The way he saw. The way his presence had felt…inevitable. Like something she’d been circling for a long time without knowing it.
Her instincts had warned her from the start that he was trouble. So much trouble. She’d walked straight into him anyway.
She wrapped a towel around herself and stepped back into the bedroom, slipped into her robe and left the room, the scent of him still everywhere, soap, heat, something darker underneath.
He was dressed now, moving easily around her kitchen, bare feet on the tile, sleeves pushed up as he poured coffee like he belonged there.
That thought hit harder than it should have.
They ate standing close, hips brushing, the counter too small for the space between them.
He told her about Virginia Beach without being prompted, about the ocean, the constant wind, the way the base felt like its own city, self-contained and relentless.
He spoke about it like it was home, even as he kept his tone light.
She listened, leaning against him, nodding in the right places, aware of how naturally they fit.
This was temporary. It had to be. He was Navy. Tier 1. Locked into rules and deployments and a life that didn’t bend. She had built something here. Fought for it. Earned it. She’d invested years into her work, into not being derailed by anyone else’s gravity.
Yet she couldn’t stop touching him. Couldn’t stop leaning in when he spoke. Couldn’t stop letting her fingers trail over his forearm, his shoulder, the small of his back when she passed him in the narrow space between the counter and the table.
When she went to get dressed, he followed her into the bedroom without comment, scooping clothes off the chair so she could sit.
He paused, fingers catching on something soft and black.
“This looks like ballet stuff,” he said, holding up a pair of tights, running the fabric absently between his fingers. “You planning on more workouts?”
She smiled, tugging on her jeans. “Yes and no. I do ballet every day, but that stuff was sent over from my sponsor Pure Plié. She shrugged. “For my approval. It’s part of my clothing line. My brand is called, Pink by Brown.”
His head snapped up. “Clothing line,” he repeated. “Way to bury the lead, Brown.”
She laughed quietly. “I’ve been with them since my career took off. They stuck with me when I was forced to retire.”
She hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. Flat. Tight. But the words landed anyway.
He rose immediately, closing the distance. “I’m sorry,” he said, and there was no hesitation in it. “Not about the clothing. About what you lost. That must’ve been hard. I can’t imagine.”
She reached up, cupped his face, ran her thumb along that tough, beautiful jaw. “Thanks. But it’s in the past. This keeps me connected.”
He studied her for a moment, gray eyes softer now. “Why law enforcement?” he asked. “Instead of teaching? I would’ve thought that’d be your first choice.”
She met his gaze. “My mom was the typical dance mom,” she said simply. “She pushed me every step of the way.”
His arms tightened around her.
“Teaching… I would’ve loved it,” she went on. “But I needed distance. Breathing room.”
He nodded once. “And now?”
She slipped her hand into his hair without thinking, loving the contrast, hard body, soft silk beneath her fingers. “I miss it,” she admitted. “Immensely. But I have my duties. The rescues and troublesome Navy SEALs to deal with.”
His mouth curved. “That so?”
“Yes,” she said, laughing softly. “One particular SEAL is going to make me late, and I’m already in the doghouse.”
His expression sharpened. “If he gives you—”
“You going to take him out?” she teased.
“I could,” he said easily. “Say the word.” A chill traced her spine. “Better to let him live and suffer, knowing he lost you out of weakness and ambition. That feels like poetic justice, and I’m fucking selfish. Makes me feel good.”
Her fingers brushed his bottom lip. “Kelly,” she whispered, then kissed him, soft, unhurried. “Does it make me a bad, bad girl that I melt at the thought that you’d kill a man for me.”
“Hmm,” he rumbled. “Bad, bad girl. I like that.”
“You’re so beautiful.”
He snorted, deflecting her words immediately. She saw she was going to have to work on him a little more. What a hardship. “Didn’t you say something about being late?”
She groaned and grabbed her jacket. “Come on.”
The drive to TOC was quiet, in the way that wasn’t empty. Her thoughts churned as the road came back into focus. Her body leaned toward him every time he shifted in the seat. Her hand found his thigh at a stop sign without permission.
They’d barely stepped out of the car when a familiar voice cut through the air.
“Blair.”
Ayla Locklear stood beside her jeep, expression unreadable, eyes sharp. “I’ve got something.”
Blair felt the shift immediately. The pull back into duty. Into reality. Whatever this was between her and Breakneck, whatever it might become had to be left alone for now.
She straightened, heart still racing, and turned toward Ayla.
Ayla had already pulled the footage up when they stepped into the TOC. The room hummed with low voices and electronics, the scent of burnt coffee and ozone familiar and grounding. Blair shed her jacket and moved in beside her as Ayla scrubbed back through the timeline with practiced precision.
“I’ve been reviewing the aerials from before and after the cartel cleared the ranch,” Ayla said, fingers flying.
The screen shifted, freezing on a grainy overhead shot.
She leaned in and pointed to a narrow dirt road cutting away from the compound.
“They weren’t just running blind. They had an exit plan. ”
Breakneck stepped closer, his presence at Blair’s back steady and quiet.
Ayla zoomed in. Tire tracks. Fresh. Deep. Purposeful. “These head into the mountains.”
Blair studied the screen, head tilting slightly. “So you think they went that way?”
Ayla’s mouth curved into a knowing smirk. “No.”
She flicked her wrist, pulling up another image, cleaner, sharper. A wide stretch of land unfolded across the monitors. Fencing. Outbuildings. A sprawling ranch tucked deep into rugged terrain, miles from anything resembling a main road.
“That’s the decoy,” Ayla said, satisfied. “This is where they actually regrouped.”
Breakneck’s gaze narrowed as he took it in. “Isolated,” he murmured. “Difficult terrain.” His finger lifted, tracing a narrow approach on the screen. “You try to push vehicles in there, you choke yourself at this bottleneck.”
Blair nodded slowly. “Which means they won’t expect a fast insertion.”
Ayla glanced between them, eyes bright. “Exactly.”
Blair leaned back, crossing her arms as the shape of it settled into place. “Looks like it’s horses and helicopters.”
Breakneck’s mouth twitched. Just once.
“Horses and helicopters?” Iceman’s voice came from behind them.
They turned as one.
With Boomer next to him, Iceman stood a few feet back, arms folded, posture loose but coiled, the kind of relaxed that meant violence lived just under the surface.
His gaze went first to Breakneck and something eased there.
It looked like Ice was saying, The kid’s okay.
She was good for him. Iceman would never be anything less than pure, energized intimidation.
That was his baseline. But Blair saw it anyway.
The way his shoulders settled. The way his attention shifted from concern to relief.
Breakneck mattered to him. Not just as a teammate.
Not just as a leader. As something closer.
Iceman, his eyes ice blue on a good day, slid to Blair next. On a bad day, downright glacial. They held her for a beat longer than necessary and then, just as quickly, the edge dulled. So fast she almost missed it. Gratitude.
Boomer gave a low grunt, like he’d clocked it too. “You look good, kid. You’ll never be relaxed, but you look almost human.”
“That just about sums us up,” Iceman said dryly. “Let’s get to planning this takedown. The brass is chewing my ass for results.” He tipped his head toward Ayla. “I owe you a beer.”
Ayla smiled, all sharp satisfaction. “I won’t argue with that, Master Chief.”
The room shifted. Screens filled with terrain maps and timelines. Voices layered in, purposeful and controlled.
Blair felt it, the snap from personal analysis to action, the quiet certainty that this was moving forward now, no hesitation left.
Breakneck moved closer as if to soak up whatever she radiated.
“Navy SEALs have more in common with Mounties than you’d think,” Iceman said casually, glancing at Blair. He gave her a quick, unapologetic wink.
“Oh, yeah?” Blair said, amused despite herself.
He nodded once. “Tier 1 doesn’t rest until we get our man.”
Blair laughed softly, then stopped short when Iceman’s gaze slid past her and locked onto Breakneck.
She narrowed her eyes. “Hey.”
Iceman’s mouth twitched. “What? Break’s always been a team guy.”
Boomer huffed quietly, clearly entertained.
Break touched the small of her back where no one could see the gesture. She released a breath, aching to be with Breakneck again, not just with his body, but in the circle of his arms where he held her like more than a lover.
Iceman chuckled under his breath, satisfied, and turned back to the screens.
As Iceman studied the map and Boomer started calling in the team, Break’s shoulder brushed hers, deliberate, familiar now.
He leaned in, voice low. “If you put on that Mountie uniform, I’m all yours, baby. You won’t even need the cuffs.”
She snorted softly, then risked a glance at Iceman. He didn’t look up. Didn’t react. Professional to the bone.
She leaned back into Breakneck just enough and murmured, “What if I want to use the cuffs?”
Breakneck laughed out loud.
Iceman kept his eyes on the match overlay, expression unchanged, except for the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
Boomer didn’t bother pretending he hadn’t heard a damn thing.