Chapter 9
WILLA
Ican't sleep after Kane leaves.
The room feels too quiet without him, too empty despite being filled with his things. His scent lingers on the blankets—something purely male that makes me want things I shouldn't want.
I pull on my boots and head into the corridor.
Echo Base feels different at night. The emergency lights cast shadows that shift and move, making the carved rock walls seem alive. Somewhere deeper in the mountain, water drips with steady rhythm. My footsteps echo too loud in the silence.
I'm not sure where I'm going until I find myself outside the med bay.
Through the small window in the door, I see Kane standing over Cray's unconscious form. He's not interrogating him yet—just watching, hands braced on the edge of the gurney, head bowed. The weight of command sits heavy on his shoulders, visible even through the reinforced glass.
I should leave. Give him space. Let him do what needs doing without the complication of me watching.
Instead, I open the door.
Kane's head snaps up, hand moving toward his sidearm before recognition hits. "You should be resting."
"So should you." I move closer, keeping my voice low. Khalid's in the corner, watching Cray's vitals. The boy glances at me, then at Kane, then quietly slips out of the room. Smart kid. "How long until he wakes up?"
"Tommy says at least two hours." Kane's jaw tightens. "Plenty of time to plan what I'm going to ask him. What methods I'll use if he doesn't want to talk."
"Methods?"
His eyes meet mine. "Torture, Willa. Let's call it what it is. He tried to kill you. The Committee sent him to erase you like you never existed. I'm going to make him tell me everything he knows, and I'm not going to be subtle about it."
The cold certainty in his voice should frighten me. Should make me back away from this man who's discussing torture like it's a tactical decision.
It doesn't.
"Good," I hear myself say. "He doesn't deserve subtle or gentle."
Something shifts in Kane's expression. "Most people would be horrified."
"Most people didn't have his gun pressed to their head." I move closer until I'm standing beside him at the gurney. "Most people haven't killed as many men as I have in as short a time. I think we're past the point where I get to be horrified by what survival requires."
"You keep surprising me." His hand finds mine, fingers threading together. "Standing here like this is your new normal. Like you've always been someone who could watch me work and not look away."
"Is that a problem?"
"No." His thumb traces my knuckles. "It's just... I keep waiting for you to realize what we're becoming. What I'm pulling you into."
"I'm not most people." I squeeze his hand. "And neither are you. That's what makes this work."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken things.
Cray breathes steady on the gurney, kept alive by machines and my medical intervention.
In a few hours, Kane will hurt him. Will extract information with whatever means necessary.
And I'll be okay with that because the alternative is dying.
"Come on," I say finally. "You've got two hours before he wakes up. That's two hours you could be sleeping instead of staring at him."
"Can't sleep."
"Neither can I." The words come easier than they should. "So let's not sleep together."
Kane's eyes find mine, and I see the want there. The need. The same hunger that's been building since that moment in his quarters before Tommy's comm interrupted.
"Willa...”
"Don't." I step closer. "Don't tell me this is a mistake. Don't tell me we shouldn't. Don't tell me all the tactical reasons why wanting each other is a bad idea."
"It is a bad idea."
"I don't care." My free hand finds his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the tactical vest. "I've spent six years being careful. Being smart. Making all the right choices to stay safe and alive. And where did that get me? Alone. Scared. Waiting for the next attack."
"I'm not safe." His hand covers mine. "I'm not the good choice."
"I know." I lean closer. "You're a man with a kill count who's about to torture someone for information. You've got scars that should have killed you and demons that probably should. You live in a cave because the world above ground wants you dead. You're the worst possible choice I could make."
"Then why...”
"Because you came for me." The truth tastes like freedom. "Because you didn't have to, and you did anyway. Because when everyone else looked at me and saw a liability, you saw someone worth protecting. Because you're the first person in six years who's made me feel something other than afraid."
His thumb traces across my knuckles. "What do you feel?"
"Alive." The word comes out rough. "For the first time since I ran from Chicago, I feel alive. And I don't want to waste that. Don't want to spend another night lying alone in the dark wondering what if."
Kane's silent for a long moment. Then: "If we do this—if we cross this line—there's no going back. You understand that?"
"I understand." My heart pounds against my ribs. "I understand that tomorrow you might die fighting the Committee. That I might die. That we're both marked for execution and living on borrowed time. I understand all of it, Kane. And I'm done letting fear make my choices."
He studies my face like he's memorizing it. Like he's cataloging every detail in case this is the last time he gets to look.
Then he moves.
His hand slides into my hair, pulling me close as his mouth finds mine. The kiss is nothing gentle—it's weeks of tension, days of danger, hours of wanting something we both knew we shouldn't have. It's the taste of survival and the promise of something more.
I kiss him back with everything I've got. With six years of loneliness and fear and wondering if anyone would ever see past the broken parts to the woman underneath. With the knowledge that this might be all we get—one stolen moment before the world intrudes again.
His other hand finds my waist, pulling me flush against him. I feel the tactical vest, the weapons, the muscle beneath. Feel the evidence that he's real and solid and here.
"Not here," he says against my mouth, voice rough. "Not with him watching."
I glance at Cray's unconscious form. Right. Even sedated, the idea of being intimate with an enemy ten feet away feels wrong.
Kane's hand finds mine, and we're moving.
Through corridors I'm starting to recognize.
Past the operations center where Tommy's bent over his keyboards, too focused to notice us pass.
Down to the quarters Kane gave me—his quarters, I realize now.
His private space that he's sharing because it's the safest place in the base.
The door closes behind us. Locks with a solid click.
And then it's just us.
Kane cups my face with both hands, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure." I reach for his tactical vest, fingers finding the straps. "Are you?"
"I've been sure since I saw you stitch my head wound with steady hands while the Committee was hunting you." He helps me with the vest, letting it drop to the floor. "Since you refused to run when the smart play was running. Since you looked at my scars and didn't flinch."
I reach for his shirt, pulling it over his head. More scars come into view—burn tissue across his ribs, a puckered bullet wound near his shoulder, evidence of a life lived in violence.
I trace the burns with gentle fingers. "Do they hurt?"
"Not anymore." His breath catches. "Nerve damage. Most of the sensation is gone."
"Most?"
"Some places still feel." His hand catches mine, guiding it lower. "Some places feel everything."
Heat floods through me. I lean up, kissing him again while my hands explore. He's all hard muscle and battle scars, evidence of a body that's survived what should have killed it.
His hands find the hem of my shirt. "Can I?"
"Yes."
He pulls it over my head, tossing it aside. His eyes track over me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Not clinical assessment. Not the way doctors look at patients. This is pure want, pure need, pure hunger barely held in check.
"Beautiful," he says quietly. "I knew you would be."
My hands find his belt. "Your turn."
We shed the rest of our clothes with fumbling urgency, each piece of fabric another barrier removed. By the time we're skin to skin, I'm shaking—not from fear, but from want so intense it almost hurts.
Kane lifts me easily, carrying me to the bed. I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling him against me, hard and ready and wanting this as much as I do.
"Willa." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer as he sets me on my feet. "Tell me if you want to stop. Anytime. For any reason."
"I don't want to stop." I pull him down for another kiss. "I want everything."
His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. Each touch sends electricity through my nervous system. It's been so long—six years since anyone touched me with gentleness instead of violence. Six years since I felt safe enough to be vulnerable.
And I realize I'm done fighting this. Done pretending I don't feel it. He's not safe. Never was. Never will be. And I don’t care.
The kiss deepens, his mouth demanding against mine, inviting me to give everything. His hands slide from my jaw into my hair, fingers tangling in strands until he closes his fist around it. He tastes like danger and determination and something uniquely him that makes my knees weak.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his eyes are dark with desire that mirrors my own.
"Tell me to stop," he says, voice rough. "Last chance, Willa."
"Don't you dare."
Those words shatter something in him. I see it happen—the moment the iron control I've watched him maintain since he first tumbled into my life finally fractures and the man beneath breaks through.