Chapter 9 #2
The afternoon stretches into evening. We eat MREs heated over a camp stove. Beef stew that tastes like cardboard but fills the stomach. We review the tactical plan twice more. Check equipment again. Wait.
Waiting is the hardest part. Knowing what's coming. Knowing people might die tonight. Knowing Sergei Volkov, the man who murdered Emma, is out there in that camp right now with no idea what’s coming, no idea that justice is hours away.
Around nineteen hundred hours, Zeke calls a break. "Get some rest if you can. Clear your heads. We move in two hours."
The team disperses. Nate and Caleb outside for a perimeter check. Irving and Morris to the vehicles. Chris on the satellite phone coordinating with federal backup teams staging nearby. Zeke stays at the command center, reviewing intelligence reports.
Harlow catches my eye. Tilts her head toward the staircase leading to the second floor. A question.
I follow her up. The second floor is less damaged than I expected. Four small rooms that might have been offices or sleeping quarters decades ago. She chooses one with a door that still closes. A single window looking out over the forest. A sleeping bag someone laid out in the corner.
She shuts the door. Locks it. Turns to face me.
"I needed a minute," she says. "Away from the planning. Away from knowing what we're about to do."
"Same."
"I'm scared, Rhys."
The admission surprises me. Not that she's scared, that's natural. But that she's willing to say it out loud. To be vulnerable when everything about this operation requires her to be strong.
"Of the assault?" I ask.
"Of losing you." She moves closer. "This morning when those operators hit your cabin, all I could think was that I'd just found you. Found this. And someone was trying to take it away before we even had a chance to figure out what it is."
"We survived."
"This time. But tonight is no different. Tonight we're walking into a fight against people who've killed before. Who won't hesitate to kill again." Her hands find my vest, fingers curling into the tactical fabric. "And I can't lose you. Not now. Not when I'm just starting to feel alive again."
I cup her face in my hands. "You're not losing me. I promise."
"You can't promise that."
"Then I'll fight like hell to make sure it's true.
" I lean down, rest my forehead against hers.
"All this time I've been dead inside. Going through motions.
Existing but not living. Then you showed up and suddenly I want things again.
A future. A life beyond this investigation. You did that, Harlow."
"Rhys." My name is barely a whisper.
"I choose this," I say. Each word deliberate. "I choose you. No matter what tonight brings, I'm choosing you."
She kisses me. Hard and desperate and full of everything we can't say in the command center with the team watching. I kiss her back, pulling her closer, needing to feel her solid and real in my arms.
The kiss deepens. Becomes desperate. Her hands slide under my vest, yanking at the shirt beneath with urgency born from knowing we might not get another chance.
Her nails scrape across my skin and I groan into her mouth.
I back her toward the wall, pin her there with my body.
She gasps when her back hits wood, arches into me, and the friction nearly undoes me.
"Rhys." My name breaks on her lips. Need and fear and determination all tangled together.
I kiss down her throat, tasting salt and adrenaline. Her pulse hammers under my tongue. "We might die tonight," I murmur against her skin.
"I know." Her hands find my belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. "That's why I need this. Need you. Need to feel alive before we walk into hell."
Her words shred the last of my control.
"We have time," she murmurs against my mouth. "Before we need to be downstairs."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." She pulls back just enough to look at me. "Last night was about need. About survival and desperation and fire. This time I want slow. I want to memorize every part of you. I want to take our time."
How can I say no to that?
I strip off her vest, set it carefully aside. Her shirt follows. Then mine. We undress each other slowly, revealing scars and skin in equal measure. The little light through the window is enough for us.
The graze on her arm from this morning is bandaged. I trace around it gently, then lean down and press my lips to the gauze.
"You were hit protecting me," I say.
"I was hit because I chose to stand and fight beside you." She runs her fingers through my hair. "That's different."
I guide her to the sleeping bag spread on the floor. The fabric is worn soft, warmer than the bare wood beneath. We sink down together and I take my time, refusing to rush despite the urgency thrumming through my veins.
My mouth finds the hollow of her throat. Her pulse flutters against my lips. I kiss lower, following the line of her collarbone, feeling her breath catch with each touch. My hands map the curves of her body, learning the landscape of her skin.
"Here," she breathes, catching my wrist and guiding my hand to the curve of her hip where it meets her thigh. "Touch me here."
I oblige, fingers tracing slow circles on her skin. The muscle flexes beneath my palm as she shifts, pressing into my touch. Her head falls back and a small sound escapes her throat, half gasp, half moan. I do it again, adding pressure, watching her face as pleasure builds in her expression.
"What else?" I murmur against her breast.
She shows me. Takes my hand and places it exactly where she wants it. The base of her spine. The tender skin behind her knee. The sensitive curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Each touch draws a different reaction. A gasp. A shiver. My name whispered like a prayer or a curse.
Her hands explore in return, mapping scars and muscle with deliberate attention. She finds the old training injury on my shoulder, fingers tracing the puckered skin before her mouth follows. The sensation sends heat straight through me.
"This one?" she asks, lips moving against the scar.
"Obstacle course. Missed the landing on a rope climb." My voice is rougher than it should be. "Dislocated it. Never quite the same after."
She kisses it again, tender and claiming at once. Then moves lower, finding the knots of tension in my back from too many hours hunched over Emma's files. Her thumbs dig in, working the muscles until I groan.
"Better?"
"Don't stop."
She doesn't. Her exploration continues, finding the spot just below my ribs that makes me flinch and then laugh despite everything. She grins against my skin, clearly delighted by the discovery.
"Ticklish, Sheriff?"
"Only there." I catch her hands, pin them gently above her head. "And that's classified information."
"Your secret's safe with me." Her eyes are dark with desire and something warmer. Trust. "All your secrets are safe with me."
The words hit deeper than they should. I kiss her again, pouring everything I can't say into the contact. She responds with equal intensity, legs wrapping around my hips, pulling me closer.
We kiss until we're both breathless. Until the slow exploration becomes urgent need. I settle between her thighs and she's ready, welcoming me. I push inside and we both go still, savoring the connection. The intimacy of being joined like this.
"Look at me," she says.
I do. Her eyes are dark with desire and something deeper. Something that looks like hope.
"I want this," she says. "I want you. No matter what comes next, I'm choosing you, Rhys Blackwater."
The words break open the armor around my heart. I move, slow and deep, watching her face. Watching pleasure build in her expression. Feeling her body respond to mine. We fit together like we were designed for this. For each other.
"You're mine," I say. Not a question. A statement. A claim.
"Yes." She arches beneath me, pulling me deeper. "And you're mine."
"Yes."
We move together, bodies finding rhythm like we've done this a thousand times before. My hips drive forward, slow and deep, and she meets each thrust with a roll of her own. The friction is exquisite. The heat between us builds with every stroke.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, leaving marks I'll feel tomorrow. If we survive tomorrow. The thought makes me thrust harder, needing to claim this moment, claim her, before death has a chance to take it away.
"Harder," she breathes against my neck. "Don't hold back."
I don't. Can't. My control shatters and I drive into her with everything I have. The sleeping bag shifts beneath us. Her legs lock around my waist, heels digging into the small of my back, pulling me impossibly deeper.
The angle changes and she cries out. "There. Right there."
I maintain the position, hitting that spot with every thrust. Her inner muscles flutter around me, tightening. She's close. So close. I can feel it in the way her breathing changes, how her fingers scramble for purchase on my sweat-slicked skin.
My hand slides between us, finds where we're joined. My thumb circles her and she gasps, hips jerking against mine.
"Rhys." My name breaks on her lips. "I'm going to—"
"Let go. I want to feel you."
Her body goes rigid. Back arching off the floor.
Mouth open in a silent scream. Then she shatters, inner muscles clenching around me in waves so tight I can barely move.
The sensation drags me over with her. Release crashes through me with the force of everything I've held back for three years.
Grief and rage and need all pouring into her as I bury myself deep and let go completely.
We stay locked together, trembling. Her heart pounds against my chest. My face is buried in her neck, breathing in the scent of her sweat and skin. For long moments neither of us moves. Just breathe together in the aftermath, holding onto this moment of being completely, utterly alive.
After, we collapse together on the sleeping bag, hearts still racing. Her head finds my chest. My hand traces lazy patterns on her bare shoulder. The sleeping bag pulled over us both.
"That was different," she says quietly.
"Better?"
"Just different. Last night was about fire. This was about connection."
"I like both."
She laughs softly. "Me too."
We stay like that for long minutes. Not talking. Just being together. Storing up this peace before we walk into chaos.
Finally, reluctantly, we get up. Get dressed. Return to being Sheriff Blackwater and the woman who's become my partner in every sense of the word. But everything between us has changed. We're not just working together anymore. We're bound together in a way that has nothing to do with the case.
Downstairs, the team is gathering. Checking final equipment. Loading weapons. The atmosphere has shifted from planning to execution. Everyone moves with purpose now. With focus.
Zeke looks up when we return. If he suspects what we were doing upstairs, his face doesn't show it. Just hands us each a tactical radio and a night vision monocular.
"Final check," he says. "Comms?"
We test the radios. Clear signal.
"Weapons?"
I chamber a round in my rifle. Check my sidearm. Harlow does the same.
"Medical?"
I pat the trauma kit on my vest. "Good to go."
"Rules of engagement," Zeke says, his voice hard. "We're going in to rescue captives and arrest traffickers. Deadly force is authorized if threatened, but we want prisoners who can testify. Especially Sergei Volkov. We need him alive."
He looks directly at me when he says it. Making sure I understand. Making sure I won't let rage override training.
"Understood," I say.
"Good." Zeke checks his watch. "Twenty-one hundred hours. Time to move."
We gather our gear. Final checks. Final confirmations. Harlow beside me, focused and deadly. Beautiful and terrifying all at once.
She catches my eye. "We survive this," she says. Not a question. A command.
"Both of us," I agree. "No exceptions."
Her fingers tighten on mine. A promise without words.
Outside is dark. Full dark with no moon. Perfect conditions for what we're about to do. The vehicles wait, engines off, hidden in the trees. Beyond them, the forest stretches black and infinite. And somewhere in that darkness, eight women wait to be rescued.
Sergei Volkov waits too, though he doesn't know it yet. The man who killed Emma. The man who thought he could murder a sheriff's wife and walk away clean.
Tonight we prove him wrong.
We load into the vehicles without speaking.
Zeke takes point in his SUV with Nate and Caleb.
Irving and Morris follow in the tactical van.
Chris brings up the rear. Harlow and I climb into my truck, and as we pull out of the forestry station, heading toward the assault position, her hand finds mine in the darkness between us.
Her fingers lace through mine and squeeze once. A promise. A pact.
We may be walking into hell together, but it's better than walking in alone.