Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Lyra
Being outside is less dangerous than remaining here, letting the tension build. And besides, that delays the inevitability of going to bed.
Beneath the same sheets.
“S’mores for the win.” Does he hear how forced my voice sounds?
Grateful I have something to do, I gather the ingredients while he heads outside.
Ten minutes later, we’re in the fire pit area. Seating is arranged in a circular fashion around the area, and there are lots of rocks snuggled up to the hole in the ground.
There are a few Adirondack chairs, a couple of thick, short tree stumps that don’t look comfortable at all. And there’s a wooden bench that seats two people.
I take a chair while he gets a fire started.
Kindling crackles. Then the logs ignite, flames casting dancing shadows across our faces. The night air is crisp and cold, and he carried out a blanket that he now wraps around my shoulders.
Once we have a nice fire, spears a marshmallow with a long, straight stick. Taking a seat, he offers it to me.
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Oh? No camping trips?”
Always a balancing act so I don’t reveal too much. “That isn’t something my family was into.”
“Well, you’re about to learn one of the best things about being outside at night.”
Dad had always preferred the cover of night, when there were heavy clouds. And he hated full moons. I’d been taught that the time after sunset was our ally. It wasn’t for sitting around and having fun.
“Hold it just above the flames. Not in them.” Stryker’s not as bossy as he has been up until now. This is a softer, different side of him. “Think of it like teasing. You want steady heat, not an inferno. Keep it moving, slow circles, until the outside turns that perfect golden brown.”
I nod, lean forward, and immediately dip the marshmallow straight into the heart of the fire.
Whoosh.
A blue-orange fireball erupts, swallowing the entire thing.
Stryker’s laugh rolls out of him, deep and surprised. “Jesus, Allie. Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it?”
I jerk the stick back, staring at the blackened torch on the end. “I think I got too close.”
“You think?” He’s still grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners, firelight highlighting the sharp line of his jaw. “Here. Watch.”
He skewers a fresh marshmallow. He’s so close his thigh presses against mine. Then he extends his arm and keeps the marshmallow in the sweet spot.
Concentrating only on the task, he turns the treat in slow, patient circles.
The skin blisters, then blushes gold, then deepens to caramel. The smell is pure sugar and the childhood I never had.
“Let it take its time.”
My second attempt is barely better. I get cocky, dip too low again, and the thing ignites like a tiny supernova. I squeak—actually squeak—and wave it frantically while flames climb higher.
Stryker plucks the stick from my fingers before I set myself on fire. “All right, firebug. That’s enough arson for one night.”
He blows out my flaming disaster, then offers me his perfectly roasted marshmallow. The outside is crisp and golden.
I take it carefully, cradling the warm, gooey perfection between my fingers like it might vanish. When I bite down, sugar and smoke and pure, ridiculous happiness flood my mouth.
Once it’s gone, I look at him. “Oops. I was supposed to make a little sandwich out of it, wasn’t I? Not just eat it up.”
“You get to do whatever you want.”
Always the hero, he roasts a second and turns it over.
“You’re good at this.” I assemble my s’more with chocolate and graham crackers.
“Years of practice. Military camping trips weren’t always about survival training.”
It’s the most personal thing he’s shared, and I find myself hungry for more. Military. I knew it. But he hasn’t admitted to the whole of it, I know. Special forces. “Do you miss it?”
He considers this, staring into the flames. “I miss the brotherhood. The certainty of the mission.” He glances at me. “But I don’t miss the politics. Or watching good people get hurt because someone in Washington made a bad call.”
“Is that why you left?”
“Part of it.” He puts together a treat of his own and takes a bite.
A small bit of melty chocolate smears at the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, I reach over and brush it away with my thumb.
Oh dear God.
What have I done?
Both of us go still. His skin is warm under my fingertip, and his eyes turn even darker in the firelight.
“Allie.” My name is a whisper, rough with want.
I should pull my hand away. Should make some joke about chocolate and s’mores or anything other than the attraction arcing between us. Instead, I find myself leaning closer.
A twig snaps in the darkness beyond the fire, and I jerk back, every survival instinct suddenly screaming.
Stryker is on his feet before I can blink, his hand moving toward his weapon with practiced ease.
Without me being aware of it, I’m also on my feet, gripping the gun that’s tucked beneath my hoodie.
For long, fraught moments, we remain in place, eyes scanning the terrain, listening. Waiting.
There’s another sound—smaller this time. A rustling in the underbrush.
After about ten seconds, he speaks. “Probably just a racoon.” But he doesn’t sit back down immediately. Instead, he pulls out his phone that appears to be open to a security app. He scans through various images of the property.
Then he strides away to perform a physical inspection of the nearby area, his body coiled, ready.
When he returns, we both settle back into our chairs. I hadn’t even realized I was standing, gun in hand.
“You’re always on guard, Allie?”
“Who isn’t when you’re in the middle of nowhere at night? When people have been chasing you?”
When he studies me in the firelight, I quickly add, “Especially when you have no idea why they’re after you.”
“And that’s why you had a go bag stashed?” He nods. “And carry a gun? Because you’re not expecting anything bad to happen?”
Do you ever stop?
To end the conversation, I stand again. “We should probably head inside.”
The fire crackles between us, and tension hangs suspended
Finally Stryker also stands and starts banking the fire. I watch him work, efficient and thorough, making sure no embers remain. Safety first, always.
Inside, the cabin feels smaller, more intimate.
Physically and emotionally, he’s gotten closer to me than any man ever has. And that scares the hell out of me.
He locks the door, resets the alarm, and checks the windows while I rinse my wine glass.
When we’re both standing in the living room, awkwardness shrouding the atmosphere, he tips his head to one side. “Want a shower? Rinse off the smoke from the fire?”
Anything to get away from him.
“Thanks.” I grab my duffel and head for the bathroom. Once I’m inside, I lock the door and breathe deeply, grateful for a few minutes alone.
The bathroom is relatively nice, with a shower and a deep clawfoot tub that calls to my aching muscles.
I turn on the faucet.
Then I tuck my gun and holster inside my bag along with my hoodie, shirt, baseball cap, jeans, and the fob that people are ready to kill for.
Inviting steam rises from the bath, and I do my best to secure my hair before sinking into the welcoming warmth.
Aware of his movements in the cabin, I soak until the water begins to cool, letting the heat and privacy work their magic.
When I finally get out, I feel more human than I have all day. My sweatpants and T-shirt are cozy. And because of the mountain chill, I add a pair of socks.
In the distance, I hear the low rumble of Stryker’s voice.
Talking to Hawkeye?
Towel drying the damp ends of my hair as best I can, I return to the living room, carrying my duffel.
Stryker is standing by the fireplace, his back to me, and he immediately ends his call.
When he turns, I have to bite back a sound of appreciation.
He’s changed too. Gone are the tactical pants and boots, replaced by gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. No shirt.
My breath catches in my throat.
I’ve seen him in fitted clothes all day, but nothing could have prepared me for this. His shoulders are broader than I imagined, tapering to a narrow waist.
Defined abs lead down to the waistband. There’s a tattoo over his heart—black ink that looks like text, though I can’t make out the words from here
Strong muscle moves under tanned skin marked with scars—a puckered circle on his left shoulder that could only be a bullet wound, thin lines across his ribs that speak of blades.
His dark eyes find mine, and the look in them makes my knees weak.
“Feel better?” His voice is rougher than usual.
“Much.” I’m proud of how steady I sound, considering my heart is racing. “The bath was perfect.”
His gaze travels over me slowly, taking in the way my damp hair falls around my shoulders. When his eyes meet mine again, there’s heat in them that makes my skin tingle.
“Good.” He moves toward me with his customary, predatory grace, stopping close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
My pulse thunders in my ears. I should step back, should maintain the distance between us. Instead, I find myself tilting my face up to his.
“Allie.” He reaches up, cupping the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my damp hair. “You’re killing me.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“I know.” His thumb traces the line of my jaw, and I shiver at the contact. “That’s what makes it worse.”
He’s going to kiss me again. I can see the intention in his eyes, feel it in the way his body leans into mine. I should stop this. Should remember all the reasons why this is dangerous, why I can’t afford to let him get close.
But when his mouth slants over mine, warm and sure and perfect, I forget everything else.
This kiss is different from the one at his condo. That was stolen, interrupted, desperate. This is deliberate. Thorough. He takes his time, exploring my mouth like he has all night, like I’m something precious he wants to savor.
I melt into him, fisting my hands against his solid chest, anchoring myself to his strength. He tastes of chocolate and emotional threat.
And when his tongue meets mine, a tiny sound escapes me—part surrender, part plea.
He responds by pulling me closer until there’s no space between us, until I can feel every hard plane of his body against mine. His hand slides down my spine, settling at the small of my back, holding me to him.
I’m drowning in sensation. The feel of his skin under my palms. The way his mouth moves against mine, claiming and conquering. The heat of his body. The scent of him surrounding me.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his hands still tangled in my hair.
“Jesus, Allie.” His voice is strained. “What the fuck is this?”
I don’t have an answer. I don’t understand it any more than he does. All I know is that when he touches me, when he looks at me like I’m the only thing in his world, I forget why I should be afraid.
“I should go to bed,” I whisper, but I don’t move.
“You should.” His eyes open, meeting mine.
Still, we both remain in place, the atmosphere closing in around us.
“I can’t let you go alone.”
The words hang between us, heavy with promise and danger and want.
“Stryker—”
“I know all the reasons why this is a bad idea.” He strokes a thumbpad across my cheek. “I know you’re hiding something. I know you don’t trust me. And being in the same bed will complicate everything.”
“Then why—”
“Because I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you in that coffee shop. Because when I kiss you, you kiss me back like you’re starving. Because despite all your walls, all your secrets, you’re the most real thing I’ve touched in years.”
His honesty steals my breath. I want to tell him the truth—about who I am, what I’m running from, why I can’t give him what he wants. But the words stick in my throat, trapped behind years of lies and survival instincts.
Instead, I reach up and trace the tattoo over his heart. It’s Latin, I realize. Nunquam Cede. Never yield.
“What does this mean to you?” I ask.
His hand covers mine, pressing my palm flat against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady.
“It means I don’t give up on the things that matter.”
The words are a promise. A warning. A declaration all rolled into one.
I look up at him, this man who’s turned my carefully ordered world upside down in the span of a single day. Who makes me want things I can’t have, dream of possibilities that don’t exist for someone like me.
“Now are you ready to go to bed, Allie?”
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with possibility and promise and the weight of a choice I’m not sure I’m strong enough to make…