Chapter Twelve
Dave’s weight bore down heavily, his arm slack against his shoulder. Carrying Dave up the beach, lungs burning, not from exertion, but fueled by instinct and fear.
Behind him, Clinton struggled against Rip and Winter’s hold, his voice split the night. “No, stop—he needs me!”
“Shut him up,” Stone barked as he hit the pathway that would lead to the side gate.
Rip jerked Clinton by the collar, dragging him through the sand. Winter locked his other arm, silent and cold-eyed.
Boston stalked beside them, steps sure, his tone cutting. “Want me to take over, Rip?” He didn’t sound hurried—he sounded almost cynical. “I’ll make it so he stops breathing and you won’t have to explain anything to POTUS.”
Eighteen, wiry and restless, Boston had the sharp energy of a street-born survivor.
Dark chocolate eyes missed nothing, as quick as his tongue.
Black curls framed a lean, sly face; a wildcat grace in the way he moved—skittish, nimble, always fidgeting with his hands.
Slow to smile, but when it came, the grin was wicked and worth the wait.
Opinionated, crafty, uncannily smart—the kind of sharp edge you underestimated at your own risk.
Rip growled. “Zip it, kid, or I’ll feed you to the surf.”
Boston smirked, sharp as a blade. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, old man. I was raised to slit throats in my sleep. But sure—ignore the fact that he almost killed our commander. Seems like a plan.”
Rip’s jaw worked, caught between throttling the brat and laughing at his nerve.
“One of these days, kid, your mouth’s gonna write a check even your quick feet can’t cash.”
Rip glanced at Dave, pale and slack in Stone’s arms, and his scowl deepened. “But not tonight. Tonight, you shut up and walk.”
Boston only snorted, like Rip’s warning was just foreplay.
Damn kid was going to be the death of him.
Stone blocked it all out. Focus narrowed to the gravel path under his boots and the limp weight of Dave against him. The man who never faltered was slipping fast.
Concrete replaced gravel. The headlights of Dave’s town car carved through the dark, engine already idling. Law stood nearby, the rear door open like a lifeline.
Stone lowered Dave inside, one hand steady on his chest, feeling the rapid, shallow rise and fall.
“Hospital,” Stone ordered, sliding inside next to Dave. His voice left no room for argument. Law snapped the car door shut.
The driver punched the accelerator. Tires spat gravel, the car fishtailing before it tore down the drive.
The ER was a wash of fluorescent glare. Machines beeped steady warnings, nurses swarmed, and the sharp tang of antiseptic filled Stone’s lungs.
Fuck.
This reminded him of his own hospital stay just six months ago.
He rubbed absently at his shoulder—an old habit more than pain—while he stayed planted at the bedside.
His other hand hovered close to Dave’s arm.
Anyone who tried to shift him back from sitting bedside thought better of it under the weight of his glare.
Nobody wanted to fuck with the dangerous-looking soldier.
Dave’s doctor—fifties, glasses perched low, steady hands—listened through his stethoscope, studied the EKG, then gave Dave a stern look.
“Your blood pressure’s dangerously high. Hypertension. You’ve been ignoring the signs for too long.”
Dave managed the ghost of a smile, lips pale. “What gave it away?”
The doctor didn’t flinch. “This isn’t a joke, Dave. You’re not invincible. If you keep this pace, next time it won’t be chest pain. It’ll be a coronary event—and you may not walk away.”
Stone’s fists curled tight. “He’ll do what you say.”
Dave turned his head, eyes narrowing despite the wires taped to his chest. “Since when do you give me orders?”
“Since you stopped listening to anyone else.” Stone’s voice was low, steady, but steel-threaded.
The doctor scribbled on his chart, then met Dave’s gaze again. “You need rest. Real rest. Stress management. Medication. Without it, your body will quit before your will does.”
Dave exhaled, jaw tight, but didn’t argue.
Stone’s shoulders stayed rigid, but inside, relief and terror churned.
He couldn’t lose him—not like this.
The next morning, Dave’s town car swept through the estate gates.
Inside the study, Sparrow leaned over the desk, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, his papers lined in precise rows.
Law lounged against the far wall, arms folded, whiskey eyes sharp, restless energy vibrating under his skin.
“They’re back,” Law said, pushing off the wall.
“About damn time,” Sparrow muttered. His voice carried clipped irritation, but there was something else under it—relief he’d never show outright.
Black, who’d been like a silent shadow, straightened from his lean next to Law.
The doors opened.
Stone guided Dave in, one hand steady at his back. Dave’s face was pale, his shirt rumpled from monitors, and his coat half off his shoulders.
“Hospital gave him a lecture,” Stone said.
Dave shot him a look. “And I don’t need another.”
Sparrow snapped his briefcase shut, eyes flicking between them. “Good. Because Titus isn’t slowing down. He’s shifting ports, bringing in new contractors, new routes. If we don’t move soon, we lose him.”
Law leaned forward, interest sparking. “I’ll run Sparrow’s lines. Connect the dots.”
Dave dropped into his chair, shoulders heavy but spine straight. His voice was gravelly, but steady. “You’ll work with Sparrow. And with Stone. Keep Viper, Winter, and Black in the loop.
“Clinton’s out. From here on, everything runs through me.”
Law arched a brow, but only nodded. Sparrow gave a small, sharp tilt of his head.
“That’s a maybe,” Stone said. “I’ll be Dave’s advisor and right hand for the foreseeable future.”
Nobody argued.
Later that evening, when the study emptied and the estate finally quieted, Stone found Dave in his armchair. Beyond the gardens, the Pacific stretched silver in the window’s frame.
Dave’s hand rested on the armrest, knuckles pale, gaze fixed on the horizon. “I can’t keep running like I’m thirty.”
“Then don’t,” Stone said. He moved closer, lowering himself into the chair beside him. He turned sideways until their knees nearly brushed. “You don’t have to run alone.”
For a long moment, Dave didn’t answer. His eyes lifted, holding Stone’s.
Something shifted.
Softer, less guarded.
Like maybe, finally, Dave saw more than the soldier at his side.
Dave’s gaze lingered a half beat too long—on his eyes, then lower. Stone felt the weight of it, the way Dave’s focus caught on his mouth, like he was memorizing the shape of it.
Or remembering the taste.
Stone’s chest tightened. He didn’t move, didn’t dare break the fragile thread strung between them.
Dave’s lips parted just slightly, as if the thought was already there. What would it feel like? The question hung in the air unspoken, but Stone felt it like a live current.
Instead of words, Dave reached across, hand brushing his, deliberate, not by chance. Just the smallest touch.
The silence that followed was raw, vulnerable. Outside, the Pacific rolled relentlessly. Inside, Stone sat steady, every muscle wound tight against the pull toward him.
Dave’s thumb lingered against his knuckles—small, deliberate, like a door cracking open. Stone felt it in his chest, sharp and impossible to ignore.
He didn’t move, didn’t push, just let the moment breathe. But Christ, with Dave this close, the warmth of his hand in his, it was all Stone could do not to lean in and take what they both already felt hanging in the air.