Chapter 26
Brooke
Our lips met, the hunger consuming me. He cradled my face in his hands, his lips warm and firm against mine. I was suddenly back in Afghanistan, the junior scientist and her protector, crossing lines that were designed to keep us alive.
But his kiss was life. It was everything.
His tongue caressed mine slowly—so slowly the ache began building between my thighs already. When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, his eyes searched mine. His intensity made my stomach tighten with a craving I’d tried so hard to forget.
“Brooke,” he whispered, not taking his hands from my face, “I swear, this wasn’t what I came up here for.”
Part of me wanted to throw caution aside, to lose myself in him and forget everything that had happened between us. But could I? After years of rebuilding myself—literally and figuratively—could I risk that kind of devastation again?
Or could I have one night, maybe two, with him, and move on?
Didn’t I deserve as much?
Who was I kidding? With any other man, maybe, but not this one.
“But maybe you hoped?” What a stupid thing to say, Brooke. I’d never been able to control myself around Rav.
“I’m not sure hope’s the right word.” His hands slid down from my jaw to my neck, pulling the high neck of my shirt down and causing every muscle inside me to tense. He’d feel the scar. He’d know it was there.
Run, Brooke! Run!
But if he felt the scar, he didn’t react. “Hope isn’t a big enough word to express what it was like seeing you again.”
His admission sent a pulse of desire through me that was impossible to ignore. I reached for him, pulling him closer so our mouths met again. This kiss was different—deeper, needier. His hands moved down my sides, spanning my waist before sliding around to my back, crushing me against him.
When his mouth left mine to trail kisses down my jaw, I tilted my head back, giving him access to my neck—to the right side. His lips found a sensitive spot below my ear, and my breath caught.
Six years, and he still remembered exactly how to touch me.
“Rav,” I breathed, my hands finding their way under the hem of his T-shirt, needing to feel his skin.
He made a sound low in his chest as my fingers traced up his sides, over the ridges of muscle that had sustained me through many a long night. When I tugged at the shirt, he straightened to haul it over his head in one fluid motion.
My gaze snapped to his shoulder. To the scarred mess where he’d been shot that day. Not just three neat circles, but jagged evidence of surgical repair, tissue damage, and healing. “I’m so sorry.”
Another stupid thing to say, Brooke.
“I’d do it all again if I had to.”
How could he say something like that and still think he’d failed me somehow?
I traced one of the marks on his shoulder, in the dip between muscles. He’d covered it all with new ink. I focused further out, taking in the whole design.
The tattoos on his upper arms were the same as before, Navy symbols like a compass star and anchor, alongside the red maple leaf and blue fleur-de-lis, but they’d been expanded up over his shoulder, and included—
I sucked in a quick breath when I realized what I was looking at. A scorpion. Its tail wrapped around the bullet holes, one of the claws extending along a particularly long scar.
A scorpion? Was that for me? Or just some random figure a tattoo artist gave him to incorporate into the mess his doctors had left behind.
“This one’s not venomous.” He was so quiet, it was almost as though I were reading his mind instead of listening to his voice.
When did he get it?
“I had it done after the surgeries were finished.” He looked down at his shoulder, rolling it a few times. “And after I started with Reynolds.”
“Why this design?”
He blinked at me several times, a vulnerability flickering across his features before he wrapped me in his arms and pulled me flush against him.
“When I was at my worst, I heard your voice, telling me I could go on. So I… I got this to always have something of you with me, even when I thought I didn’t deserve it. ”
But still, he hadn’t called me back?
I wanted to believe him—wanted it with such a passion that my stomach churned. But years of silence couldn’t be erased by a tattoo and a few tender words.
“I’m so confused.” I leaned forward, pressing my lips to the most prominent scar, feeling the raised texture against my mouth. “I’m still angry with you, but I…”
But no matter what, my body craved him.
My stupid heart did, too.
Maybe we couldn’t turn back the hands of time. But maybe we could find a reset button? “No matter how hard I try not to, I still want you, Rav.”
“You can have whatever of me you want.” His hands skimmed down to my waist, fingers slipping beneath my turtleneck to touch bare skin. The contact sent electricity racing through me. Slowly, he began to lift the fabric, his eyes asking permission.
And suddenly, my brain remembered.
My scars.
The damage.
The reason I always wore high collars and long sleeves.
I stilled his hands with mine. “Wait.”
He immediately froze. “I’m sorry if I—”
“That’s not it. Before this goes further…” I took a deep breath, steeling myself. “There’s something you need to see first.”
Part of me wanted to give in to the moment and forget about everything else. Just because his shirt came off didn’t mean mine had to. I could have sex with a shirt on. He never had to see the damage.
What if it went well between us? What if we had a future beyond this mission? It’s easier to lose him now than later.
“You aren’t the only one with scars.” My throat tightened, and I stepped back from him, my body protesting the whole time. “The chemical splash at Barin Kala did more damage than you might realize.”
“I don’t care.”
“You might.” I slipped out of his grasp, moving toward the slice of moonlight coming through the balcony doors. I closed the door, as much to delay the inevitable as to cut the chill from the air. I focused on those details, anchoring myself as my hands moved to the hem of my turtleneck.
In one smooth motion, before I lost my nerve, I pulled it over my head.
I stood there in my bra, my back still to him, acutely aware of the damage visible even from behind.
The mottled skin crept over my left shoulder and down my back, evidence of where the chemical had soaked through my shirt and plate carrier, wicking along the fabric, eating through the cells as fast as it could.
He came closer, no doubt to witness how hideous I was.
His eyes were on me, but I couldn’t bring myself to face him. Not until I was sure I could handle the rejection.
“I don’t care about scars,” he whispered again, with such sincerity I almost believed it.
Drawing another deep breath that did little to settle my nerves, I turned to face him.
The scarring was extensive—starting at my left ear, traveling down my neck in an uneven path, spreading across my shoulder, the inside of my arm, and chest, covering most of my left breast before tapering at my waist.
I forced myself to meet his eyes, bracing for what I might find there—pity, disgust, or worst of all, the careful blankness that meant someone was hiding their true reaction.
His eyes moved over my scars with the same attention he’d give any part of me. When his gaze returned to mine, there was no revulsion—only a deep sadness. “Can I touch you?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He moved toward me slowly. When his fingers finally made contact with my skin, tracing the edge of scarring along my collarbone, I thought my heart was about to explode.
His touch was gentle, almost reverent. “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “The nerve damage makes some areas numb, others hypersensitive.”
His hand paused. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“I will.”
His fingers resumed their careful exploration, following the same path the Lewisite had over my shoulder. He mapped the geography of my injury without hesitation or retreat.
“I should have been there,” he said, voice tight. “During your recovery. After.”
“Yes,” I agreed simply. “You should have.”
His hand stilled, and for a moment I feared I’d pushed too far. But then he lifted his palm to cup my face, guiding my eyes back to his.
“You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said, with an intensity that made my chest constrict.
I tried to smile, but my lips trembled with the effort. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean to people I care about.” His thumb brushed away a stupid little tear that had escaped my eye. “I don’t give a shit about scars, Brooke.”
The simplicity of his acceptance cracked something open inside me. For years, I’d hidden beneath high collars and scarves, avoiding intimacy, building walls between myself and anyone who might see the physical evidence of that day.
Since Owen.
“A colleague I worked with after Afghanistan saw them once. I was changing after a long shift, and I was in a tank top. He…” I swallowed hard, not wanting Rav to know the full truth—that Owen and I had been dating, that his reaction when he saw my scars had put a swift end to that relationship.
“After that, I never wanted anyone to see them again.”
I also didn’t add that Owen’s rejection had convinced me I would always be alone, because no one could want me like this.
After Rav ghosted me and Owen rejected me, I’d accepted what I’d already feared: I wasn’t worth staying for.
Rav’s eyes darkened. “Come here.”
He yanked me against him, and our lips met again. This kiss was deeper, knowing, tinged with a tenderness that made my eyes sting. I found myself pressing closer, desperate to feel his skin against mine.
“I can’t undo what I did,” he said between kisses, his cock hardening between us. “But can you forgive me?”
“Yes,” I moaned.
He pulled back with a half-chuckle. “Was that for forgiveness or for something else?”
“Oh god, Rav.” I clutched at his hair, not needing to think about my decision. “It’s for everything.”
A wicked grin spread across his face, and we moved toward the bed together, his hands steady on my waist. When the backs of my legs hit the mattress, I sat, pulling him down with me. The weight of him pressing me into the soft surface felt both new and achingly familiar.
When he lowered his mouth to mine again, I met him halfway. He kissed a path from my lips to my jaw, then lower to my neck. When he reached the beginning of my scarring, he didn’t hesitate or pull away.
He slid my bra strap down my shoulder. I tensed, afraid despite his earlier acceptance. This was different—more intimate, more exposed.
“I want to see all of you. But only if you want me to.”
I nodded, unable to form words.
He eased the cup of my bra down, exposing my scarred breast. For a moment, he simply looked, as though proving how little it bothered him. Then he lowered his head, pressing his lips to the damaged skin, no differently than he’d done years ago.
A sob caught in my throat as tears spilled down my cheeks. No one had touched me like this since he had—like I was still whole, still desirable. Like my scars were simply another part of me.
His mouth found my nipple, and a jolt of sensation shot through me. The nerve endings there had been spared, and the contrast between numbness and acute sensitivity ricocheted through my body. His arm tightened around me, supporting me as I arched against him.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured against my skin. “Exactly as you are.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stop the tears before I embarrassed myself. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be wanted. If I let myself believe this, if I let myself hope, and he left again… I might never recover.
What if Rav was the only one who would ever treat me like this? What if it was only tonight?
His hand slid down my side, pausing at the button of my pants. “Is this okay?”
I nodded, helping him with the button and zipper. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He peeled my pants down my legs, revealing the part of my body that was still pristine.
I reached for him, needing his weight on me, his skin against mine.
He settled between my legs, propped on his elbows to keep from crushing me.
The moonlight played across his features, throwing half his face into shadow but illuminating the intensity in his eyes—the same look he’d given me all those years ago when he’d promised to keep me safe.
A promise he’d tried to keep, I realized now. Those bullets had been meant for me.
“I don’t have any condoms,” he admitted, a hint of humor in his voice.
“Neither do I.” I wiped the back of my hand across my face to clear the tears. An unexpected smile tugged at my lips.
“I bet the other guys do.” His eyes danced with mischief. “I could steal some.”
“Maybe later,” I said, my hands moving over the muscles of his back, learning the changes time had wrought. “I don’t want you to leave right now.”
His mouth found mine again, and I lost myself in the exploration of his body.
His hands roamed over me, not hesitating as they passed from good to bad skin.
He was just tender. This huge, strong man.
This operator. He hadn’t lost his tenderness, which was how he’d found his way into my heart the first time.
I gasped when his fingers traced the inside of my thigh.
When he teased at the waistband of my panties, he paused. “Last chance, Doc.”
“No condoms, soldier.”
He licked his lips, slow and sensual, intent clear in his eyes. “Where I’m going, I don’t need—”
A sharp knock at the door jolted us both.
“Brooke? Rav?” Emmett’s voice called through the door. “We’ve got urgent intel from Brie.”
Reality crashed back with jarring clarity.
The mission.
Fenix.
Thousands of lives would be at stake in less than forty-eight hours.
Rav’s forehead dropped to rest against mine, a quiet sigh escaping him.
“We’ll be right down,” he called back, his voice far steadier than mine would have been.
“Team meeting in two minutes,” Emmett replied, footsteps retreating down the hall.
With obvious reluctance, Rav shifted to the side, giving me room to sit up. When I did, he cupped my cheek again, meeting my gaze with his characteristic confidence. “This is not an ending, Brooke.”
I turned my head, pressing a kiss to his palm.
Could this be real? Could there be more?