Chapter 2
Control. Was it a fucking illusion?
Her teeth ground together. She trembled, remembering the hospital room after his surgery, the sterile light and antiseptic sting in the air.
He’d sat there, stitches fresh, stubbornly silent, while she worked her fingers through his damp hair to braid it back out of his face.
The strands had slid over her knuckles, soft against skin that had touched too much blood.
She told herself it was nothing but focus.
A lie, and she knew it. Because part of her wanted to linger at the nape of his neck, to keep touching until she lost herself in him.
Even just now, when he’d grabbed her outside the shower, her skin had lit where his palm closed around her wrist. She bit her lip, hating herself for the way her mind betrayed her, replaying the sight of him dripping from the steam, the scar from Rio a pale slash across dark, delicious skin.
The carved thickness of his biceps, the wide, beautiful chest, the kind of body that looked built to shield and destroy in equal measure.
There was so much to look at with him. So much to touch.
Dangerous thoughts, she shut them down. The depth of his beliefs scared her and shamed her.
She’d left so much behind, and not by accident.
It was survival. She couldn’t carry the silence of her ancestors without breaking.
So she’d carved herself new, remade, relentless.
Graced with a sacred trust, she was supposed to be more than a CIA operative.
Hands meant to heal, to advise, to give…
now only took, washed in blood. All that remained was bitterness, disappointment, and running, so much running.
She hadn’t been chosen. Not for her people.
Not for her ancestors. Maybe not even for him.
Her heart pounded like she was already halfway gone. Madness, when discipline was her armor. Wanting him? Needing him? Hating herself for it? That was trapped heat, feeding the insanity.
“Bailee. New intel. We’ve got them by the shorthairs,” one of the analysts said into her earpiece.
She clenched her fists at her sides and forced her legs to move again, stride sharp and steady. Better to pretend she didn’t feel it. Better to keep the shame pressed down deep where no one, least of all him, could see it.
The C-130 roared with the grind of engines, bodies jammed shoulder to shoulder in the webbed seats, duffels and weapons stacked neatly in the center. The smell of sweat, oil, and canvas pressed in close, a crush of exhaustion and victory humming in the air.
Bailee scanned the rows, heart sinking. Packed. Every seat taken. Except one.
Right next to Bear.
Of course.
He sat solid in the narrow seat, broad shoulders crowding the space, K9 crate wedged against his boots where Flint’s low whuff vibrated through the deck. He didn’t look up, didn’t move, just radiated that impenetrable calm, like he could ride a hurricane in silence.
Her stomach tightened. Damn, how long was this flight, and was she expected to make small talk with him? The thought of that sucked. She hated small talk. Bear didn’t seem the type to enjoy it either, so maybe that tall, silent thing he had going would save her.
Except it didn’t.
Why couldn’t she just get past it? Why did his nearness twist her nerves into knots when she’d faced down warlords without blinking?
He discombobulates you, Bailee, she told herself. You’re powerless to counteract it.
“Move it, CIA,” one of the crew growled, jerking a thumb at the empty spot. “You’re holding up the bird.”
She clenched her jaw, slid past knees and gear, took the friggin’ seat, pulled her laptop from her bag, and fired it up like the roar of engines and the weight of him beside her didn’t exist. Work. Pretend. Ignore.
But she should’ve known better.
His heat hit her immediately, thigh brushing hers, their arms a breath apart.
Don’t react. Don’t feel it. Pretend control isn’t an illusion.
Bear’s low voice rumbled over the drone of the C-130. “We just finished a forty-eight-hour op. Don’t tell me you’ve got work to do now.”
She didn’t look at him. “I have reports to write, intel to read and analyze for anything actionable. As you know, the world doesn’t rest. Criminals and terrorists are always on the move.
” Her fingers flew over the keys, sharp, precise.
Then, before she could stop herself, the tease slipped free.
“But you go ahead and get your winks in. You could use the beauty sleep.”
D-Day leaned forward, wedged between Blitz and Zorro, grin wide, eyes dancing. “She ain’t wrong, big man.”
Of course she was wrong. It was nothing but a way to get a response out of him.
Bear didn’t even blink. “You aren’t exactly supermodel material, D.”
Of course, he was wrong. D-Day…his whole team was overwhelming in the looks department.
The laughter that rippled down the row eased the tension everywhere but in her chest. Bear hadn’t smiled.
He hadn’t softened. He’d just answered in that steady monotone, unruffled, unknowable.
Damn if that didn’t discombobulate her more than a grin ever could.
Flint’s nails scratched softly against the crate. Bear reached down, brushed his fingers along the mesh, and Bailee’s pulse betrayed her, thudding hard at the tenderness of it.
The engines thundered, the bird shuddered into the sky, and Bailee sat locked in silence beside the man who undid her with nothing but breathing.
Buck snorted. “Goddamn me, Bear, you still look fresh as a daisy.”
Blitz leaned in with a grin. “Yup. With those rugged looks, I’m sure you could walk that runway like a boss, make all those New York women want a piece of our Native American warrior. Just a vest, camo pants, and boom, we’ve got ourselves a fashion show.”
Bear didn’t even tilt his head. “Blitz, your imagination astounds me.”
Zorro chimed in without missing a beat. “He’d rock it. Camo would become the new black.”
The laugh broke out of her before she could stop it, sharp, startled, real. She clamped her mouth shut, heat crawling up her neck.
Then she realized he was looking at her.
That prickle of embarrassment bloomed into a blush, hot and traitorous.
It wasn’t a mocking stare, not even curious, just steady, as if he were absorbing her joy, soaking it in like it belonged to him.
Her nerves fired in a rush, and she jerked her gaze down, desperate to escape that probing silence.
Bad idea.
Her eyes snagged on his hand, broad, capable, steady where it rested on his thigh.
The smooth skin of his forearm, the sleeves of his cotton shirt rolled back to reveal corded muscle.
God, why were forearms so sexy? Male eye candy, a line that drew her gaze helplessly up the rounded biceps, to the heavy breadth of his shoulder.
Heat suffused her, treacherous and swift.
She already knew those hands could be gentle. He’d manhandled her all over the jungle, steadying her, hauling her, protecting her. The details blurred in adrenaline and exhaustion, but him? Bear was crystal clear.
Heat burned under her skin, and shame bit at the edges.
Her gaze tracked the muscle, precise as intel, irrelevant as hell.
She was CIA. Disciplined. Untouchable. She didn’t get rattled, didn’t get reduced to lusting over a man’s muscles like they meant anything.
Get it together, Thunderhawk. Control was survival, and here she was, losing it over muscles. Damn, some very nice muscles.
Stop it.
Flint whined, soft but insistent, breaking her spiral.
Before she thought better of it, she was already on her feet, crouching to unlatch the crate. The black Malinois stretched and padded out, pressing his head into her palm with a low huff.
Bear’s voice came from above her, that calm rumble that always seemed to cut straight to her bones. “You taking over my dog-handling duties, Bailee? You’ll have to check that out with Flint. He outranks me.”
She straightened, lifting her chin. “All the more reason not to keep him cooped up. Do you have a tennis ball or something? I’ll throw it for him.”
Something flickered across Bear’s face then, softening the hard lines, taking some of the edge from his silence.
His eyes gave nothing away, but the shift was there, quiet and undeniable, like a door opening just a crack.
Then, almost too low to catch over the engines, he murmured, “That laugh’s like sunshine. ”
Bailee froze, heat streaking across her skin.
Before she thought about it, she whispered, “Thank you.”
He dipped his head in that unhurried way of his, reached into the pocket of his cargo pants, and pulled out a beat-up tennis ball. He pressed it into her hand, fingers brushing hers, callused warmth sparking heat straight through her.
The plane shifted, a sudden lurch that sent her balance tilting. Her stomach jumped, but before panic could flare, Bear was already up, his body braced against the swaying fuselage, solid as the bulkhead.
She grabbed for him instinctively, fingers twisting into the material of his shirt.
The cotton was warm under her palm, stretched over muscle that radiated steadiness.
Ancestors give her strength, he smelled good—clean sweat, sunbaked canvas, something earthy that made her ache to bury her face against his skin.
His hands came down around her, big and sure, steadying her like she was weightless.
He stared down at her, that beautifully formed, stoic face mesmerizing.
His hair was raven-black, thick and heavy, the strands always brushing loose no matter how tightly he bound them.
The light caught on the edges now, gleaming blue-black like a crow’s wing.
His cheekbones were high and sharp, cut from Lakota ancestry, his jawline strong enough to look carved rather than grown.
A faint shadow of stubble darkened his skin, roughening the clean lines, making him look both older and endlessly male.