Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Stryker
Frustrating. Annoying. Beautiful.
The three words cycle through my head on repeat as I watch Allie slip out onto the deck, her silhouette barely visible through the sliding glass door. She moves like smoke—silent, careful, always checking her surroundings. Even when she thinks she’s alone.
Especially when she thinks she’s alone.
The door alarm and motion sensors picked up her movement the instant she stepped outside—a soft buzz from my phone that I’ve been conditioned to notice even in the deepest sleep. Years of operating in hostile territory will do that to a man.
Not that she’s going anywhere. Her go bag is right where she left it. And there’s zero doubt her Glock is inside. Allie Johnson would never attempt an escape without her weapon. Especially not on a Colorado mountain night, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, sweats, and a pair of socks.
Still, the knowledge that she’s out there, exposed to the elements and whatever threats might be lurking in the darkness, makes something primitive and possessive claw at my chest.
Mine.
The thought should concern me. Should send me reaching for the emotional distance I’ve perfected over the years. Instead, it only makes me want to claim her more thoroughly.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to process what just happened between us in that bed.
Christ.
I’ve had my share of women over the years.
Submissive women who understood the score, who understood the boundaries of what I could offer them.
Clean, simple arrangements that satisfied physical needs without messy emotional entanglements.
Professional relationships, in a sense. Everyone got what they needed, and nobody got hurt when it was time to walk away.
What we shared wasn’t that.
It was something else entirely. Something raw and desperate and real that reached into my chest and twisted things I thought I’d locked away after Somalia. After I learned the hard way that caring too much could get good people killed.
The way she looked at me when she came apart in my arms—like I was her anchor in a hurricane, like she was seeing me for the first time.
The way she said my name when she shattered around my cock, breathless and desperate and completely, utterly mine.
The way she let me see her—really see her for the first time—beneath all those carefully constructed walls.
And the way she ran afterward, like being vulnerable with me was more terrifying than facing down armed thugs in a Denver park.
Yeah. What we shared was definitely not a simple hookup.
My phone buzzes again—another motion alert.
She’s still on the deck, probably freezing her ass off in the Colorado mountain air.
Stubborn woman. The temperature dropped another ten degrees after the sun went down, and it was already cold enough to see your breath.
Hell, they got snow above ten thousand feet last night.
And I wouldn’t be surprised if we got some soon.
I reach for my phone, checking the security feeds out of habit. The thermal imaging shows her exactly where I expected—curled up in the deck chair, knees drawn to her chest, looking up at the star-scattered sky.
The infrared picks up the heat signature of the locket against her skin, that mysterious piece of jewelry she never takes off. The one she touches when she’s nervous or thinking too hard.
My phone shows no new updates from Hawkeye. No intel on the coffee shop incident. No leads on who might want to hurt her or why someone would tear her apartment apart looking for something specific.
Guessing she’d appreciate something hot to drink, if not the interruption, I head for the kitchen.
I set the coffee maker for myself, then take out a box of the premade chai we bought in town.
After reading the directions, I grab a pan and a carton of oat milk. Then I measure out the proper ratio and I turn on the burner.
Being domestic isn’t exactly part of my skill set. But I remember the look on her face this morning when she had her first sip of chai. And I want to see that expression again.
Jesus, Stryker. You’re losing your mind over a woman who won’t even tell you her real name.
The fuck is wrong with me?
But as I stir the mixture on the stove, I can’t bring myself to care.
Whatever game she’s playing, whatever secrets she’s hiding, whatever danger she’s running from—it doesn’t change the fact that she fits in my arms like she was made for me.
Doesn’t change the way she responded to my touch, my voice, my control.
Doesn’t change the fact that she’s the first person in years to make me feel like something more than just a weapon pointed at the enemy.
While the chai warms, I grab the fleece throw from the back of the couch. It’s soft and thick, perfect for a stubborn woman who’s too proud to come inside when she’s cold. There’s something deeply satisfying about the idea of wrapping her up, taking care of her, keeping her warm and safe.
Protective instincts, I tell myself. It’s just the job.
But even as I think it, I know it’s bullshit. This stopped being just a job the moment I kissed her in my condo. Maybe even before that, if I’m being honest. Maybe it was never a job to begin with.
Moments later, the whole cabin begins to smell like something warm and exotic, like the spice markets in Marrakech where I once spent three weeks tracking an arms dealer.
I pour her latte into a mug, fill up mine, and toss the blanket over my shoulder.
Time to find out what’s got her running from the warmth of my bed to the chill of a Colorado night. Time to start chipping away at those walls she’s built so carefully around herself.
Time to figure out who Allie Johnson really is, and why someone wants her badly enough to tear her life apart looking for whatever secrets she’s hiding.
I slide the door open and step onto the deck, the cold air hitting me like a slap. She doesn’t look back, but her shoulders tense slightly. She knows I’m there. Of course she does. She’s too well-trained to miss something like that.
“Thought you might be cold.”
She turns slowly, and even in the dim light from the cabin, I can see the wariness in her eyes. But when she notices the mug I’m holding, I see a flicker of surprise, maybe even gratitude, before she locks it down behind her usual mask.
“You made chai?”
“Knew you’d prefer it over coffee.” I hold out the blanket. “And you’re going to freeze to death out here.”
She accepts both offerings, wrapping the fleece around her shoulders before taking a tentative sip. Her eyes close for just a moment, and I catch that same expression from this morning—pure bliss, like she’s tasting something sacred.
“Thank you.” The words are soft, almost reluctant, like admitting I’ve done something nice for her costs her something.
I settle into the chair next to hers, close enough to feel her body heat but far enough away that she doesn’t bolt. The silence stretches between us, comfortable for me, clearly torturous for her. She keeps glancing at me sideways, like she’s waiting for me to start interrogating her.
Instead, I drink some of my coffee and look at the stars. There are thousands of them up here, away from the city lights. The kind of sky that makes me feel small and infinite all at once.
I study her profile in the moonlight—the elegant line of her neck, the way she holds herself even when she thinks she’s relaxed. Always ready to run or fight.
“Somalia.”
Frowning, she considers me.
This is a technique I’ve mastered. Sharing something to encourage reciprocity. “Mogadishu. Eight years ago.” But this isn’t anything I’ve told anyone else. “Lost half my team because I got emotionally invested in protecting a local asset. Made decisions based on feelings instead of facts.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “What happened to the asset?”
“She died anyway.” The words taste bitter. “Turned out she was feeding intel to both sides. Playing everyone. My feelings didn’t matter worth a damn in the end.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It taught me a valuable lesson about keeping professional distance.”
She turns to face me fully then, something shifting in her expression. “Is that what this is? Professional distance?”
The question cuts right to the heart of it. Because whatever’s happening between us, it sure as hell isn’t professional. And we both know it.
“No,” I say simply. “It’s not.”
“Then what is it?”
“Honestly? I have no fucking clue.” I lean back in the chair, studying her face.
“I just know that every instinct I’ve developed over fifteen years of black ops is telling me you’re trouble.
That you’re hiding something that could get us both killed.
That I should walk away and let Hawkeye assign someone else to this case. ”
“It’s not a case. There’s no need for anyone to be involved.” She doesn’t blink. “Especially you.”
“But I can’t walk away.”
She sighs, as if she already knows that. “Why not?”
Because you fit in my arms like you belong there. Because when I touch you, you respond like you’ve been waiting your whole life for someone to claim you. Because underneath all your lies and walls and carefully constructed defenses, I see something real and beautiful and worth protecting.
But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I reach over and trace my thumb along her jawline, feeling her shiver at the contact.
“Because you’re mine now, Allie. And I don’t give up what’s mine.”
Her breath catches. “Stryker—”
“I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust easily. I know you’ve got secrets that are eating you alive.” My hand slides to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. “But running from me isn’t going to solve anything.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Then help me understand.” I lean closer, close enough that our breaths mingle in the cold air. “Tell me who you really are. Tell me what you’re running from. Tell me why someone tore your apartment apart looking for something.”
Her eyes go wide, pupils dilating with something between fear and desire. “I can’t.”
“Won’t?”
“Fine line,” she counters.
“Share the burden.”
“Stryker—”
But I don’t let her finish. I pull her closer and kiss her, pouring all my want and need and stubborn determination into the contact. She melts into me immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt, and I taste desperation on her tongue. Desperation and chai and vulnerable femininity.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Come back to bed with me,” I say against her lips.
“We shouldn’t—”
“We should. We absolutely should.” I stand up, pulling her with me, the blanket falling away. “We’ve got tonight.”
She looks up at me with those gorgeous eyes, and I see the exact moment she makes her choice. The moment she decides to stop running. For now.
And I’m thinking of the first of a million ways to make her shatter…