18. Dont Put It Down
EIGHTEEN
Don't Put It Down
ADDY
The medical wing of the Guardian HRS safehouse is quiet, the heavy silence broken only by the low, steady hum of the climate control system.
It's been six hours since the SUVs rolled into the bay. Six hours of absolute, chaotic triage. The Guardian HRS medical team scrubbed the desert dust from Wyatt's skin, set the hairline fractures in his ribs, and closed the deep grazing wound on his bicep with sixteen neat, black stitches.
They gave him painkillers. He refused to take them.
He wanted to be awake. He wanted to feel the pain, grounding himself in the reality that he had survived. That he came back to me.
Now, the medical staff is gone. We're completely alone in the private recovery suite. The lights are dimmed, casting long, soft shadows across the sterile white walls.
I step out of the adjoining bathroom, drying my damp hands on a towel.
Wyatt isn't lying in the hospital bed.
He's sitting on the very edge of the mattress, his bare back bowed. His chest is wrapped tightly in white medical gauze, the stark bandages contrasting sharply against the brutal, fading bruises mapping his ribs. He's wearing nothing but a pair of loose gray sweatpants.
A heavy black Pelican case rests open on the floor between his bare feet.
He's methodically breaking down his sniper rifle.
His movements are slow, hampered by the stiff, angry stitches in his left arm, but his hands are entirely steady. He unthreads the heavy suppressor, wiping the carbon residue from the steel with an oiled rag. He sets the suppressor carefully into its custom-cut foam slot.
He reaches for the heavy optic scope.
I walk across the room, the tile cold beneath my bare feet and stop directly in front of him.
Wyatt pauses. He doesn't look up at my face. He stares at the heavy rifle barrel resting across his knees.
"What are you doing?" My voice is barely above a whisper.
"I'm putting it away." His voice is rough, exhausted, and scraped hollow.
"Why?"
"Because it's done." Wyatt slowly runs the oiled rag down the length of the cold steel barrel. The sharp, metallic scent of gun oil and cordite fills the small space between us. "The broker is dead. The network is dust. You're safe."
"I know I'm safe," I say softly. "That doesn't explain why you're putting the rifle in a box."
Wyatt lifts his head.
His eyes are entirely stripped of their defenses. The lethal, impenetrable armor of the ghost who haunted the world for four years is completely gone.
He looks at me with a vulnerability so absolute, it makes my chest ache.
"Because you deserve a normal life." The words tear out of his throat like barbed wire.
"You deserve a man who doesn't smell like blood.
You deserve a man who doesn't wake up reaching for a knife in the dark.
I've spent years pulling triggers. I'm done being a man with a rifle.
It's time to give it up. I'll give it all up, if it means I get to stay with you. "
The desperation in his voice shatters my heart.
He thinks he has to choose. He thinks the Reaper and the man who loves me are two entirely different people, and that one has to die for the other to survive.
He thinks he has to bury the darkest, most protective part of his soul to be worthy of standing beside me.
He's wrong.
I drop the towel onto the floor. I step into the small V between his knees, entirely invading his space.
My fingers wrap around the cold, heavy steel of the rifle barrel resting in his lap. I lift it.
Wyatt's hands instantly fall away. He watches me, his brow furrowing in deep confusion.
I don't put the barrel in the case. I press it firmly back into his open palms, curling his calloused, scarred fingers around the cold steel.
"Don't put it down." My voice remains fierce and steady.
Wyatt stares at the weapon in his hands, then up at me. "Addy..."
"I didn't fall in love with a civilian." I cup his jaw, my thumb brushing gently over the dark purple bruise blooming across his cheekbone.
"I fell in love with a protector. I fell in love with the man who crossed a border with nothing but a knife and forty bullets because he refused to let a monster hunt me. "
He leans heavily into my touch, a ragged breath shuddering past his lips.
"This is who you are." I run my hand over his broad shoulder, feeling the hard, coiled muscle beneath his skin. "You're the man who stands in the dark so the rest of the world can live in the light. Frost knows it. CJ knows it. I know it."
I lean down, pressing my forehead against his.
"This is how you keep people alive." I whisper and the words brush against his lips. "You pick this up for them. And you pick it up for me."
Wyatt closes his eyes. A profound, shuddering tremor rips through his massive frame.
The battle he has been fighting against his own nature instantly dies. The shame evaporates.
He doesn't have to choose between the weapon and the woman. I accept both. I demand both.
He lets the heavy rifle barrel slide from his hands. It clatters loudly into the Pelican case on the floor.
He doesn't reach for it again. He reaches for me.
His good arm wraps aggressively around my waist, hauling me forward until my thighs press flush against the edge of the mattress. He buries his face in my stomach, dragging oxygen into his lungs like a drowning man breaking the surface.
I thread my fingers deep into his hair, holding him tight against me.
"You're entirely too smart for me." His voice is a low murmur, his hot breath soaking through the thin cotton of my shirt.
"I'm a forensic accountant." A soft, breathless laugh escapes me. "I'm literally paid to see the things you try to hide."
Wyatt tilts his head back, looking up at me. The shadows in his eyes are gone, replaced by a dark, consuming heat that steals the breath right out of my lungs.
"I don't want to hide anymore." He says it quietly.
He shifts his grip, his large, calloused hands sliding up my sides. He traces the curve of my ribs, his thumbs brushing lightly over the heavy, frantic pulse beating beneath my skin. The touch is reverent, agonizingly slow, and entirely possessive.
I shiver, the heat pooling low and heavy in my stomach.
"Then don't," I whisper.
Wyatt pulls me down.
I straddle his lap, being incredibly careful not to bump his cracked ribs. My knees bracket his hips, sinking into the soft mattress. The heat of his bare skin radiates against me, burning straight through my clothes.
He groans, a deep, primal sound that reverberates through his chest as he wraps his arms fully around me. He pulls my mouth down to his.
The kiss isn't gentle. It isn't hesitant.
It is a violent, desperate claiming. He parts my lips aggressively, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, taking complete ownership of the taste and the heat. I gasp against his mouth, my hands tangling desperately in his hair.
He tastes like mint, exhaustion, and absolute permanence.
I kiss him back with everything I have. I pour every ounce of fear, relief, and love into the slide of my tongue against his.
Wyatt shifts, his good hand sliding up to grip the nape of my neck, holding me perfectly still as he devours my mouth. The kiss deepens, turning darker, hungrier. The slow, rhythmic friction of his hips pressing up against mine sends a blinding jolt of electricity straight down my spine.
I whimper, arching my back, pressing myself closer to the hard, unmistakable ridge of his arousal.
Wyatt tears his mouth from mine, gasping for air. His pale eyes are completely blown, the irises swallowed by black.
He grabs the hem of my shirt.
"Lift," he orders, his voice a dark, gravelly rasp.
I raise my arms instantly. He pulls the shirt over my head and tosses it blindly across the room. The cool air of the medical suite hits my heated skin, but it doesn't last a second.
Wyatt's hands are everywhere. He traces the lace edge of my bra, his rough, calloused fingers dragging a path of fire across my skin. He finds the front clasp and flicks it open.
He pushes the cups aside.
A heavy, jagged breath tears out of his throat. He looks at me like I am a miracle he doesn't deserve.
"Beautiful," he whispers.
He leans forward, his hot mouth closing over my peak.
I cry out, my head falling back as the sharp, exquisite sensation pierces straight to my core. He draws the sensitive flesh deeply into his mouth, his tongue lashing in a fast, rhythmic circle that forces my hips to jerk against his lap.
My fingernails dig into his broad shoulders, completely ignoring the faded scars mapping his skin.
He shifts his attention to the other peak, biting down gently, pulling a desperate, helpless moan from my throat. His hand slides down my spine, tracing the curve of my waist before slipping under the waistband of my sweatpants.
He palms my heat through the thin cotton of my underwear.
I shatter instantly.
The climax rips through me with devastating force. My body arches like a bowstring, violent tremors racking my frame. I bury my face in the curve of his neck as the blinding waves of pleasure crash over me again and again.
Wyatt holds me tight, absorbing every shudder, his arms an immovable fortress around my body.
He doesn't let go. Not as my breathing evens out. Not as the tremors slowly fade into a heavy, intoxicating lethargy.
He rests his chin on my shoulder, his large hand gently stroking the line of my spine.
"I'm right here." His heartbeat a steady, heavy drum against my chest.
He isn't a ghost anymore.
He's a Guardian. And he's mine.