Chapter 4
Bear gripped the wheel hard enough that the leather creaked under his palms. Her taste was still on his mouth, the shape of her body still branded to his skin, but all he could hear was the rasp of her voice. Not with you.
Christ. He knew he hadn’t misread her. He’d felt her want, the way she melted into his arms, the way she kissed him like he was the only man who’d ever mattered.
That wasn’t nothing. That was truth. Yet the moment her hand touched the scar, she recoiled as if burned, and it was him left smoldering in the wreckage.
The thought of spinning any deeper into this with her right now was unbearable. If he pushed, if he stayed, he would break himself against her walls. Damn, he was halfway there. Maybe break her, too. He wasn’t that man. He couldn’t be.
Silence pressed in, heavy as stone. It had always been his refuge.
As a boy, silence had meant survival. Don’t ask, don’t need, don’t force yourself where you weren’t wanted.
He had learned early that wanting too much drew anger, that asking drew nothing but empty air.
Better to sit quiet, watchful, unnoticed.
He’d carried that discipline into every corner of his life, a second skin so tight it cut off breath.
Tonight, it wrapped hard around his throat, choking the words he would never say.
Neglect had carved him hollow. Not in blows, not in rages, but in the endless absence of notice.
No hand on his head, no voice calling his name like it mattered.
Just the quiet echo of being unseen, until quiet itself became the only safe companion.
Losing Thatcher, then Ayla, had only reinforced what he already believed: Silence kept you alive.
Silence spared you the unbearable ache of asking and being denied.
But his body remembered what his mind refused.
Hunger lodged under his skin, a raw ache for touch, for heat, for the simple weight of someone choosing to hold on.
It gnawed at him now, cruel in its simplicity.
Bailee’s mouth had been fire against his, her body curved to his like it was made for him and then ripped away in the next breath.
He still felt her recoil seared into his chest, a phantom imprint that left his arms burning with emptiness.
Skin remembered what silence erased. It screamed for what he had never learned how to name. So he drove harder, jaw locked, muscles rigid, pretending that discipline was enough. Pretending silence was still his refuge, when all it did was leave him starving.
So he chose the only thing that ever steadied him.
Duty. Order. Training. If he pulled himself out of her orbit, maybe they’d both be spared.
He was due for his mandatory rotation through the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL Training or BUD/S, and if he asked Joker to move him up, his LT would agree.
Before he could change his mind, he took the turn that would lead him to Joker’s house.
La Jolla’s hills rolled up out of the fog like something painted.
Terracotta roofs and white stucco glowed under the streetlights, palm fronds swaying against the night sky.
The air smelled faintly of jasmine and ocean salt, money and ease.
Driveways held Teslas, surfboards stacked beside garages, security lights sweeping immaculate lawns.
His chest ached with every mile, but he drove on, jaw locked, breath harsh, pretending silence could shield him from the truth. Bailee Thunderhawk was the only woman who had ever made him want to speak.
Pippa, Joker’s wife, had designed the house as much as she’d designed the clothes that had made her name.
Glass and light, clean lines, warm wood under bare feet.
It looked like it belonged in a spread for Architectural Digest, not ten miles from the Teams’ barracks.
Joker had the kind of family money that made all of it possible, but he’d earned his own respect the hard way, through grit, through combat, through loss.
Bear slowed as he turned onto the cul-de-sac, headlights gliding over the manicured hedges and the house that sat at the top like it owned the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled golden light across the drive, laughter flickering faintly behind the glass.
He cut the engine. For a long minute he just sat there, the sound of the ocean pulsing faintly beyond the cliffs. Inside that house was warmth. A family. Safety. The kind of world he’d never quite learned how to enter.
Then he climbed out, boots crunching on the stone path, and headed for the door before his silence could talk him out of it. Before he could knock, the door swung wide. Joker stood there in a faded T-shirt, barefoot, beer in hand, eyes narrowing the instant he saw Bear.
“Locklear.” One word. Heavy with question.
Pippa’s voice floated from the living room. “Elias? Who’s at the door?” She appeared a moment later, her red hair pulled up, an easy warmth in her smile. “Dakota. Come in.”
Bear shook his head. “Can’t stay. Just need a word with the LT.”
Joker cocked his head, his gaze like a spotlight. “Middle of the night, and you show up looking like someone carved you hollow. Go ahead. Spit it.”
Bear ground out the words. “I want to move up my BUD/S rotation.”
That earned him a long stare. Joker didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Then his mouth curved in that razor smile. “Do I look like a mushroom?”
Bear’s throat worked. “Yeah, I got it. Don’t feed you shit.”
“Good,” Joker said. “Because I know damn well this isn’t about recruits.”
Pippa touched her husband’s arm lightly, her presence softening the sharp edge. “Dakota,” she said gently, “are you all right?”
The question cut deeper than Joker’s stare. Bear forced himself to nod. “I just need the rotation. That’s all.”
Silence stretched. Joker swigged his beer, never taking his eyes off him. Then he gave one curt nod. “Done. But hear me, Locklear, running doesn’t fix what’s chasing you.”
Bear inclined his head, already turning back toward the night. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Silence had always been safer.
McAllister Ranch in Parker County, outside Weatherford, Texas, Two Years Ago
The cicadas screamed in the Texas dusk, heat still clinging to the porch boards when Flynn banged out of the house.
He’d spent all morning arguing with M&M, Margaret Mary McAllister, his grandmother, the woman who’d taken him in after his parents were murdered on their sheep station in Queensland.
He called her by her initials because anything else felt too formal, too distant.
Strong-boned and striking, with silver streaking her dark hair and Irish fire in her green eyes, M&M looked every inch the ranch matriarch. Jeans, boots, and a blue cotton shirt for work. Pressed dresses for Sunday Mass.
“Don’t you bloody dare walk out on me, Flynn Patrick Gallagher!” Her voice cut through the humid air like a whip.
He stopped at the steps, jaw tight. “We’re going in circles, M&M. I’ve got chores waiting.” Flynn’s words carried a twang that was never just Texas. The long vowels of Queensland still ghosted through, softened by Parker County heat.
Clint Harlan McAllister sat in his usual spot, sipping lemonade. His M&M made the best in Texas. Maybe all of Australia, too.
“You’re fifteen,” she snapped. “Fifteen. You can’t just run off to California like some drifter.”
M&M wasn’t a woman you said no to. She’d buried too much, carried too much, to take disobedience as anything but betrayal.
“Graduated, didn’t I? Bloody earned it, too,” Flynn shot back. “School’s done. What else am I supposed to do? Sit here and rot while the world passes me by?”
Her hand shook as she pointed at him. “Your world is here. Clint gave you a home when you lost everything. And this is how you repay him? Running off to—”
“That’s enough.” Clint’s low rumble cut through, steady as bedrock. The old man leaned heavily on the rail, Stetson brim shadowing his eyes. “Boy’s got chores. We’ll jaw about this after supper.”
Flynn swallowed, half relieved, half still burning. She could scream his full name till the stars came out, but he wasn’t backing down. He’d already made up his mind. Sunshine State or bust.
The barn smelled of hay and leather, horses shifting in their stalls while Flynn forked feed into the bins. Sweat clung to his shirt, muscles tight from a day of chores he’d barely seen while his head spun. He was brushing down the last gelding when boots scuffed behind him.
Clint’s shadow stretched long in the slatted light.
He set his hat by the feed bin, the gesture deliberate, serious.
“Why you so fired up about leaving, son?” Flynn didn’t answer right away, just ran the brush in steady strokes down the horse’s flank.
Clint’s voice was low, even. “When I married, I expected a passel of children. But Velma…she couldn’t conceive. ”
Flynn glanced over his shoulder, half a grimace. “Granddad… bloody hell.”
Clint only shrugged. “It’s important information, son.”
Flynn huffed, setting the brush aside. He loved the old man like blood, maybe more. Clint had been there through the rebellion, the grief, the lean years. He’d never wavered. Always steady. Always treating M&M like a queen. “I’m sorry, Granddad.”
Clint nodded sagely, eyes steady. “You’re a good boy, Flynn, and I love you. It was my intention to leave this ranch to you.”
Flynn swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the hay-strewn floor. “Ah, why’d you have to say that?” His voice cracked when he lifted his head. “M&M can holler at me all day. She just about did, but she never made me feel…guilty.”
Clint shook his head. “That’s not my intent.” He laid a broad, warm hand on Flynn’s shoulder, and the touch settled something raw inside him. Love shone in the old man’s eyes as solid and unmistakable as M&M’s Irish fire.
“I just want you to know,” Clint said quietly, “you’ll always have a home here.”