Chapter Seven
He shifted in his chair, flexing the knee of his prosthetic leg.
This one fit better. A lot better. Eli had been right—it wasn’t painful, just tight in a few spots.
The custom adjustments and the biometric flex had been worth every goddamn frustrating hour.
He could walk with it now. Not flawlessly, but with a steady rhythm.
And he was damn sure he would be running again someday soon.
The translation device chirped. Marsh leaned in.
He’d narrowed Eli’s mysterious language down to two Polynesian dialects, both similar, but distinct.
He had a hunch it was Māori. The vowels, the cadence, the inflection—it was beautiful.
Musical. Eli had been cagey about it, that mischievous grin on his face when he’d said, “Nice to know you don’t know everything, Marsh. ”
Marsh smirked to himself, already compiling the next firmware patch. If it wasn’t Māori, he would have it soon. He was going to wear the device next time Eli slipped into it—catch the words in real time.
His main terminal pinged.
He turned, eyes narrowing as he scanned the encrypted message from one of his offshore mirror servers. A flagged military record was ready for review. With a few keystrokes, Colonel Adrian White’s service file filled the screen.
“Let’s see what kind of monster you really are,” Marsh muttered.
The door opened behind him.
Bateman stepped in, wearing the scowl that meant something was already on fire.
“What the hell is going on, Marsh?” he demanded, eyes already narrowing. “I just had a call from HQ. An admiral accusing us of harboring a kidnapped civilian. And the name he dropped? A Colonel Adrian White. I know the guy, and I have a feeling you do, too.”
Marsh leaned back slightly, frowning. “You know who White is?”
Bateman’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, I’ve had a run in or two with the man. Didn’t know he had anything to do with us now, though.”
Marsh turned his monitor slightly, letting Bateman catch sight of the file. “He’s Eli’s ex. An asshole. Abusive, manipulative, and clearly still obsessed. We ran into him in town today—he tried to grab Eli outside the store, tried to drag him back to him kicking and screaming.”
Bateman blinked. “And I’m only hearing this now because...?”
Marsh frowned at him. “This is what I do. I gather intel, put together a picture, then bring it to the team.”
Bateman arched a brow. “Nice to know you think of yourself as part of the team again.”
Marsh flinched. “It wasn’t the team I lost faith in, LT. It was me.”
Bateman nodded slowly. “I know that.”
Bateman’s eyes flicked over the screen. Redactions. Service medals. Deployment logs. Suspensions. Complaints that had disappeared into silence.
“He’s dangerous,” Marsh said. “And he’s not going to stop.”
Bateman crossed his arms. “You think he’ll come back?”
“I think he’s already working angles,” Marsh replied. “He’s used to power. To not being told no. And he thinks Eli is his property. That doesn’t go away.”
Bateman let out a slow breath.
He glanced toward the monitor, then back to Marsh. “So, who is he to you?”
Marsh didn’t hesitate. “He’s my Blake.”
Bateman stilled. Marsh pressed forward.
“I might not have known him long, but he’s ... integral to me now. I need him like I need my next breath. And, yeah, that scares the shit out of me—but it’s the truth. He sees me when I can’t even see myself. And I’ll be damned if I let that bastard White get anywhere fucking near him again.”
Bateman watched him for a long moment before nodding. “So, where is Eli now?”
“In my suite over at Ridge House. Probably still working on the schematics for the new therapy wing Ezra’s funding. He’s designing it for the team—for any of us who might need it in the future—but for others as well. Making it a haven. A place where we can help other vets like me.”
Bateman gave a slow, approving nod. “I like him. He’s sharp. He’ll make one hell of a member of this team.”
Marsh’s throat tightened.
Bateman nodded again, more slowly this time. “I’ll let the rest of the team know. We’ll keep things tight. You just keep doing what you’re doing.”
Marsh nodded, jaw tight.
He was done reacting. It was time to be ready.
He looked at the screen again, then down at the prosthetic attached to his leg.
He’d meet White head-on.
And this time, he wouldn’t be sitting in a goddamn wheelchair.
He’d be on his feet—with Eli safe behind him.
With the Pathfinders at his side.
Bateman gave a final grunt of approval before heading for the door. “Don’t keep him waiting too long, Marsh.”
The door shut with a soft click, and Marsh exhaled slowly. The hum of the lab filled the silence.
He shut down the military file and turned back to his workbench.
With careful precision, he reached for the prototype translation device and fitted it snugly behind his ear.
Just in case. He wanted to hear everything, catch every nuance of Eli’s voice, even the ones in that melodic language he was determined to decode.
Sliding his chair back, Marsh stood. The prosthetic adjusted smoothly beneath him, the sensors syncing with his movements.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was damn close.
The ridge of discomfort around the socket had dulled.
Eli had been right—once the fit was perfect, the pain became almost non-existent.
Oh, it flared up if he rushed the connection, or didn’t have it in correctly, if he wore it too long or didn’t use the creams and powders and shit Eli gave him.
And the control? The fluid movement? That was on him.
He grabbed his jacket, slinging it over one shoulder as he powered down the last of the terminals. His gaze flicked to the photo clipped to his monitor—an old mission shot of the Pathfinders. Van in the center, grinning. Marsh let his fingers rest on it for a moment, then turned away.
He took the long way out of the lab, weaving past the racks of equipment, past the suspended exo-frame he’d been tweaking. Each step steady. Controlled. No stumble, no cane. And it wasn’t about pride—it was about reclaiming what was his.
Outside, the night was crisp. The path to Ridge House was lit by warm ground-level lights. Marsh walked it, not wheeled. Not this time.
As he neared the house, he thought of Eli.
Probably sitting cross-legged on their bed, biting his lip while scribbling notes on the schematics, muttering to himself in that soft voice of his that had Marsh’s heart beating a little faster.
Maybe even humming. He’d started doing that lately.
And Marsh liked it more than he cared to admit.
What he liked most was being tall enough to pull Eli into his arms, feel the slide of those lean muscles against him. The way Eli would nuzzle into his chest like he belonged there—as if Marsh’s broken pieces didn’t matter.
Maybe they didn’t.
Not with Eli.
Not anymore.
****
Eli sat cross-legged on the bed in Marsh’s suite, notebook open, pages littered with doodles and architectural sketches.
Swatches of color samples and product pamphlets were scattered around him like confetti.
A half-eaten protein bar sat on the bedside table, forgotten as he scribbled with intense focus.
The door to the bedroom clicked open.
Eli glanced up—and froze.
Marsh stood just inside the room, leaning slightly but balanced on both feet. On both legs. The prosthetic gleamed faintly in the soft lighting below the shorts Marsh was wearing.
“Holy shit,” Eli whispered, dropping the pen.
Marsh’s grin was crooked, a little shy but proud. “Looks good, right?”
“You’re standing.”
“I am.”
Eli scrambled off the bed, but didn’t move toward him, he stopped and looked his fill. “And it looks better than good. It looks fucking fantastic.”
They met in the middle of the room, Marsh’s arms closing around Eli’s waist as Eli pressed into his chest. Eli couldn’t help but rub his face back and forth against Marsh’s strength, loving the growl of appreciation that rose in his man’s throat.
“This is so much nicer standing up,” Eli murmured, his hands sliding around Marsh’s back. “You’re ridiculously tall, by the way.”
“Six-three, baby,” Marsh said against Eli’s hair. “And you fit me just right.”
They lingered in the embrace until Eli pulled back slightly. “So, what’s the verdict? Any pain?”
Marsh shook his head. “Discomfort sometimes. But the fit’s good now. You were right. Again.”
Eli beamed, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re buttering me up.”
Marsh chuckled. “Maybe.”
They moved to sit on the bed, shoulders brushing, and Marsh reached to take his hand.
“I ran a search,” Marsh said, his voice dipping serious. “White. Colonel Adrian White.”
Eli flinched slightly. “You ran a background check?”
“Yeah. I needed to know who we were dealing with. Who you were dealing with alone up til now.” Marsh rubbed his jaw.
“The guy’s record is clean—too clean. Commendations, spotless service reviews, fast-tracked promotions.
But there were gaps. Places where files should have been but weren’t.
Mentions of misconduct investigations that suddenly stopped.
And a few sealed entries marked ‘CLASSIFIED—REDACTED.’ Someone’s been cleaning up after him. ”
Eli nodded slowly, hands twisting together. “They always did. No one ever believed me.”
“Well, I do,” Marsh said flatly. “And Bateman has the full SITREP. The whole team knows now. If White so much as sneezes in our direction, we’ll know it.”
Eli looked away for a moment, swallowing. “What will Bateman do with the info?”
“Monitor him. Spread word through our networks. Make sure no one gives White an inch. And if he comes close to the Ridge again—he won’t leave the same way he came.”
Eli looked down at his hands, then back at Marsh. “Thank you. I mean it. That ... that means more than I can say.”
Marsh gave him a long, steady look. “Duh.”
Eli snorted.
Marsh gently gripped his chin, making it impossible for him to look away. “You don’t protect something unless it matters. And you matter.”
Eli’s breath caught. “So, what now?” he asked quietly.
Marsh caressed his face, then dropped his hand.
“There’s a phrase in the military—’holding the line.
’ It means standing your ground no matter what’s coming.
You brace for the storm, prepare your defenses, and wait.
Not because you’re afraid, but because you refuse to fall.
That’s what we’re doing, Eli. We’re holding the line.
Eli leaned in then, brushing their noses together. “I’m glad I found you, Marsh Clarkson.”
Marsh kissed him—slow, reverent, yet hungry. Eli melted into it, hands threading through Marsh’s hair as if anchoring himself there.
When they finally pulled apart, their breaths mingling in the quiet, Marsh gave him a teasing look. “How glad?”
Eli laughed softly. “Depends. Are you going to kiss me like that every day?”
Marsh arched a brow. “Only if you keep looking at me like I invented gravity.”
That earned a wide smile, and Eli surged forward, tackling him back onto the bed with a joyful, “Shut up and kiss me again.”
And Marsh did—until words didn’t matter anymore.
****
White sat in a dim, low-budget hotel room on the outskirts of Jackson, Wyoming, a far cry from the crisp, manicured surroundings of his home on the outskirts of New York city.
The blinds were drawn tight—the musty curtains stained with years of cigarette smoke and something darker.
An untouched coffee sat next to a legal pad littered with angry red scribbles.
His once-pristine uniform shirt was wrinkled, collar askew, and his hair stuck up in erratic tufts, the wayward product of too many sleepless nights and far too little control.
His eyes were bloodshot, twitching with the fraying edge of restraint.
Clive Harris stood near the door, arms crossed. “Sir, maybe you should shower. Get some sleep. You’re starting to—”
“Starting to what?” White snapped, standing so abruptly the chair toppled behind him. “Look the part I’ve been forced into?”
Clive didn’t flinch, but he didn’t press either. He’d seen what happened when White’s temper boiled. “Just ... you’re not yourself, Colonel.”
White’s laugh was short, sharp, and bitter. “I am myself. I am the only one who remembers what command means. What discipline is. And I’m the only one who knows what that manipulative little fuck actually is.”
Clive stayed silent.
White turned away, jaw clenched and picked up his phone.
He scrolled through contacts until he landed on a locked folder—names and numbers that shouldn’t exist. But they did.
Because he made sure of it. Each man listed there was a ghost in the system.
Officially discharged with honors. Unofficially?
Thieves. Murderers. But they’d been useful once—and would be again.
He hit CALL.
A gruff voice answered. “Colonel.”
“Get your team together. I want you in Jackson in thirty-six hours. Bring everything. I’m sending you the Ridge coordinates. You’re not breaching—yet. Just ... send a message. A loud one. Something to remind that little therapist what happens when he runs.”
The voice asked, sounding almost bored. “Casualties?”
White’s lips curled. “No bodies yet. But make it painful. Scare him. Shake him loose. Remind him who he belongs to.”
“Understood.”
White hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. He walked to the grimy mirror and stared. His reflection barely registered. The wildness in his eyes, the crack in the pristine exterior. The mask was slipping.
But Eli would come back.
He’d come back scared, broken, and begging. Just like he used to.
And this time, he wouldn’t let him go.