Chapter 3 #3
But the tequila hit her all at once, warm and spinning, a looseness in her limbs she couldn’t quite control.
Dizzy. Was it the alcohol, or was it him?
Bear’s body surrounded her, chest pressed to her breasts, abs hard and unyielding against her stomach, his shoulders broad enough to block out the world.
She breathed him in, cedar and clean sweat, the faint bite of tequila still clinging to his breath. His scent was heat and earth and safety all at once, flooding her until she couldn’t tell where the burn of liquor ended and the man began.
Her palms slid higher, over the ripple of muscle at his back, until her fingers curled at the nape of his neck. His hair brushed across her skin, silk over her knuckles, sending a pulse of heat low through her belly.
He bent, his mouth grazing her ear, his voice a gravel-edged whisper. “You feel so damn good.”
Her pulse stuttered. She buried her face in the warm curve of his neck, stubble rasping her cheek, his skin hot against her lips. Words broke free before she could catch them. “I should be smart and get out of here.”
His chest rumbled with a low growl, his breath hot against her hair. “There’s smart and there’s safe. Let me take you home.”
The ride was too quiet. Not awkwardly quiet, but a charged quiet, threaded with all the things she refused to say aloud.
Streetlights washed through the windshield in rhythmic flashes, painting Bear’s profile in light and shadow.
His hands rested easy on the wheel, steady, strong, veins standing out along the ridges of his forearms.
She should have looked out the window, focused on anything but him.
Instead, her gaze snagged on the hard line of his jaw, the way the glow caught in the strands of his hair, the relaxed power in his shoulders.
Not a wasted movement. Not even here, just driving her home.
That calm, that restraint, pulled at her harder than any words of seduction ever could.
God, she wanted him. Every nerve in her body burned with it.
But the want was tangled in a knot of fear, tight and unyielding.
It wasn’t the loss of control that terrified her.
It was what would come after. What if she sank into him, let him all the way in, and everything she’d buried came spilling out?
Every truth she’d hidden, every failure she’d carried like a brand.
He’d see it all, the girl who hadn’t been called, the woman who’d traded sacred duty for the safety of missions and intel and a different kind of war.
What if he looked at her and saw exactly what she feared she was—not enough, not chosen, not worthy?
Exposing that to him and seeing his judgment would be like dying.
The fear was compounded by how deeply she cared what he thought, this man of faith and belief, who lived his Lakota heritage not as rebellion or shield, but as truth.
Next to his authenticity, she felt like a fraud, a woman who carried the same blood but had turned her face, her heart, away from who she was because of the shame she couldn’t bear.
The disappointment lived everywhere, in her people’s eyes, in her grandmother’s eyes, and worst of all, in her own when she dared to meet them in the mirror.
She swallowed hard, fingers digging into her thighs.
If she gave in, if she let herself take what she wanted, how could she face him tomorrow and not meet him with the truth of who she was?
How could she work beside him, knowing her control had shattered, and her silence had betrayed them both?
How could she give herself to this man in body and soul, in breath, in skin, in life, in honesty, when she’d hidden who she was so completely?
Her fingernails pressed crescents into her palms. She told herself to breathe, to remember her training, to focus on consequences.
But then he shifted, one hand sliding from the wheel to the gearshift, and the motion drew her eye down to the flex of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
Heat slammed through her chest, her belly, low between her thighs.
Resist, her mind hissed. Protect yourself. Protect your job. Protect your silence.
Want, her body countered, fierce and undeniable.
And through it all, he didn’t say a word.
Just drove, presence wrapping around her like it had at the bar, as steady and inescapable as gravity.
That silence was the worst temptation of all because it told her he didn’t need to ask, didn’t need to push.
He could wait her out. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold.
When he pulled to the curb, her pulse hadn’t slowed. If anything, the silence had wound her tighter, until she felt like a bowstring drawn to breaking.
Bear killed the engine. The headlights faded, leaving only the faint glow of the streetlamp outside her place.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then he was out of the vehicle, rounding to her side, opening the door before she could reach for the handle.
His hand came down to help her out, warm and steady, and she hated how much she needed that touch.
Inside, the air felt too still. She dropped her bag on the counter, heart hammering, the tequila buzzing in her blood. Bear closed the door with a soft click and leaned against it, tall and quiet, his hair brushing his shoulders. Watching. Waiting.
She couldn’t take it anymore. Her body moved before her mind could marshal the consequences. She stepped into him, rising on her toes, and pressed her mouth to his.
Heat flared instantly, flooding her veins. His lips were firm, unyielding, his breath rough against her skin. She kissed him harder, desperate, dragging him toward the hallway, toward the dark. Her hands fisted in his shirt, tugging, needing.
A low sound rumbled from his chest, raw and hungry. His grip shifted, and suddenly her back was pressed to the wall, his body crowding hers, hard heat pinning her in place. His mouth slanted over hers, rougher now, a kiss that stole her breath, that told her he wanted just as much, maybe more.
For a heartbeat, she let herself drown in it, the feel of his chest crushing to hers, his hips firm against her, his hair brushing her cheek as she clung to him.
Then his breath tore out hard, and he wrenched back just enough to brace his forehead against hers. His hands flexed at her waist, trembling with restraint. “Bailee…” His voice was raw gravel. “God, I want you, but not like this.”
A man without brakes was dangerous. A man with them? Terrifying
His words hit like cold water, but not rejection.
It was discipline, the tether snapping taut again.
He didn’t pull her closer. He didn’t push her away.
Just held her steady while her pulse raced like a runaway train.
“Bailee.” His voice was rough, warning threaded through desire. “You’ve had too much.”
“I’m always in control,” she snapped, pulling back just far enough to look up at him. Her throat ached, her words raw. “But I’m not here.” She could taste the tequila on her own breath. She’d hate herself for letting it make the choice.
The admission burned, terrifying and true. She’d just confessed the thing she never admitted, not weakness, but need.
For a heartbeat, she thought he’d walk. His eyes searched hers, dark and stormy, and then softened in a way that unraveled her worse than silence.
Her voice broke softer, the edge of steel stripped away. “Then hold me,” she whispered. “Just hold me.” The plea shamed her, but it also freed her.
Something in him cracked. He drew her into his chest, arms folding around her until she felt wrapped, anchored, safe. Her cheek pressed to the rough stubble of his jaw, his hair brushing her temple, his heat surrounding her.
It should have been enough. But when her lips found his again, softer this time, her fingers slid down, catching the hem of his shirt. She pushed it up, needing skin. His muscles shifted beneath her touch, the hard planes of his stomach searing against her palm—
And then she felt it. Raised and ragged under her fingertips. The scar.
Her breath caught.
The room disappeared.
Blood. The hot rush of it against her palms. His eyes going dim. That unbearable second in Rio when she thought he was gone. The despair that had gutted her deeper than any bullet ever could.
What had this done to her? Why was this roaring back? Why couldn’t she just have him?
She jerked back, stumbling.
“This—” Her voice cracked. “This is a mistake,” she said and hated how much it sounded like the sweat lodge’s silence, like every time the call never came.
His brows drew tight, pain flashing in his eyes before he masked it. His breath caught, jaw clenching hard, as if she’d just struck him.
“Bailee—”
“Go.” Her hands shook as she shoved at his chest. “I can’t do this. Not with you.” She bit her lip. He was too much, too close, already too close.
For a heartbeat his gaze flickered, raw and unguarded, before the mask slammed down. As if she’d just confirmed the fear he’d always carried.
Silence stretched heavy between them. Then he nodded once, sharp, and stepped back. His footsteps faded down the hall, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
She pressed her trembling hands to her face, her pulse still thundering. The scar still burned on her fingertips, like fire she couldn’t wash off.